


A Soul to Steal

by Rainbowrunner01



Series: Underkings [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: ...attempt at humor?, ...sometimes, Bara Sans, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Chapter Length Varies, F/M, Familiars, Frisk is a Mage, Gasterblasters, It Makes Sense In Context, Mages, Magic~, Master/Slave, Poor Frisk :), Possessive Sans, Sans is a cunning MoFo, Sloooow burn, Somehow this has turned into its own AU, Weird Plot Shit, When I said kinda angsty..., World building ahoy!, and a little shit, fangs, humans are dicks, kinda angsty, soul bonds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-27 13:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10810239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowrunner01/pseuds/Rainbowrunner01
Summary: As a rite of passage held by arcane law, all mages upon reaching adulthood must summon and bind a Familiar to themselves for servitude, protection and battle....Of course Frisk's has to be a lazy skeleton that doesn't do anything other than eat, sleep and crack horrible puns. And has the lowest stats of any summon in recorded history. She's the laughing stock of the Order.She pretends not to notice that underneath the visage of the docile Familiar lurks something far more cunning, sinister. That looks at her with murderous intent, fury and...possession.For no-one truely remembers exactly what the Familiar Bond is...even as war looms on the horizon.





	1. A Soul to Shame

The sky was an overcast grey. The swollen clouds sat low in the atmosphere, their dark bellies looming above, a sign that the torrential downpour was inevitable.

The air was sticky, humid from the heat of the summer storm, alive with the buzzing of insects and the smell of ozone that hung in the stagnate air.

Like ants that scattered before the rain, people scurried to and fro, trying to get their business done before the first drops of the rainstorm fell.

Her clothes clung to her skin, damp with sweat, pack cutting into her shoulders, the material chaffing against her hips. Her footsteps were heavy, ratty leather boots squeaking with each hurried step. Her pace was hasty not from the need to seek shelter, but in an effort to evade the barrage of eyes that followed her, the mocking whispers that melted together into a cacophony of ridicule.

Chin length strands of dull brown hair obscured her burning cheeks, flushed with embarrassment. She could feel the shame hang over her shoulders like a tangible weight, like a heavy cloud that marked of ill repute and disgrace. It weighed each step down, constricting in its guilt.

“Did you hear? A Red-mage summoned a Tier one monster as their Familiar.”

“Oh my how… _scandalous_.”

The words twisted around her like thorny vines.

“How pathetic. Aren’t Red-mages supposed to be powerful? How can we expect protection when one of them goes and does that?”

“I heard the Magnus had such high hopes for her but now he is withdrawing his recommendation!”

“I’d be ashamed to even show my face in public.”

The vines constricted, sinking their barbs into her flesh, each word like a seeping poison.

“Don’t look now, but here they come.”

“Poor girl, to be stuck with that _thing_ for the rest of her life. I feel sorry that mages have to take on the burden of those creatures for everyone’s safety.”

“Well _I_ most certainly wouldn’t want to be bound to a beast like _that_.”

The intricate black markings on her wrists burn—the rune lines that signify her status as a Meister to a Familiar, a master to a slave—she brought up a hand and rubbed one in order to relive the phantom pain. She knew that no matter how hard she rubbed they would never disappear.

The stories the mature Mages weaved about the _Summoning,_ about the power and status a Familiar brought, had never regaled her as it did the other fledglings. She didn’t want a servant, she didn’t want a pet…she didn’t want a _slave_. But it was law, _arcane_ law, a fundamental rite laid down eons ago; the likes of the Summoning would not be changed for one silly little mage-let and her aspirations—Red-mage or no.

Bitter resentment welled up in her gut, a burning anger. She never wanted this. It was never supposed to be like this.

“Hurry up!” She snapped, head whipping back around to glare at the monster— _her_ Familiar that trailed several long paces behind her, dawdling. Even as a Class one monster, it had enough sentience to understand her command…not that it listened.

Its pace was exceedingly leisurely, posture caught in a permanent slouch it seemed, its stride unhurried even with the dozens of eyes that glared at it with odium. The brown shift hung from its frame, the garb given to that of the newly bonded that held humanoid forms—a rather rare occurrence in the case of Tier Ones as most tended to be gelatinous masses or other indistinct shapes without much sentience or capability of higher thought. Just another first to add to her growing list. Upon first glance her Familiar struck a rather intimidating sight, gleaming white skull, fathomless black pits of the eyes sockets, the exposed bones of a human skeleton only seen long after death. Like the Grim Reaper, death incarnate. Yet the image instantly shattered when one took into account the rest of its features. It was shorter than an average human male, shorter than an average human _female—_ stars it barely even cleared her own height and she was _short,_ the slouch certainly did nothing to help this. The skull’s harrowing image was ruined by the lazy _grin_ that spread across its features, something that would be impossible on a human skeleton, its mandible—she believed that was the proper term for the jawbone—was completely nonexistent from the skull, fixed and seamless where it should have connected to the cheekbones, seemingly forming one bone. Its teeth as well were larger and straighter than those of a humans, the top and bottom rows indistinguishable from each other, as if they had fused together. The grin was permanent and unmoving, fixed in the same state it had been when she had first laid eyes upon it in the Summoning ceremony three days ago. Overall the monster was squatter and stouter than that of a human skeleton, bones thicker, skull rounder, giving it an almost docile, mild look. In the three days since the Summoning ceremony, three days since she had been officially recognized as an adult, the monster—no her Familiar she reminded herself grudgingly—had done nothing but sleep for hours on end and follow her docilely around like a lamb, expression utterly blank but for its grin.

The sound of hushed murmuring increased, making her grind her teeth together, cheeks flushing an even brighter red.

She was a Red-mage, a possessor a red soul, an extremely rare inheritor of Determination, the strongest of the seven sources of magic. Red-mages were known for their ability to summon Familiars of Tier nine and higher, they were regarded highly amongst the Order because of this, and as only a handful were born every generation, they were held to an even higher esteem.

You’re going to go far Frisk, they said.

You were born to do great things, they said.

One day you will change the world.

A small part of her had always wondered if their expectations were misplaced, but she had desperately hoped that she would live up to them, desperately wanted to live up to them. But if she was going to do great things it was going to be of her own accord, through her own toil and hands, not on the back of another creature bound to her. Apparently it seemed her doubts were correct.

She was supposed to summon a creature of great might, a monster of great power, befitting that of her Soul—and even if she never desired a Familiar, anything would’ve been better than this ambling piles of bones behind her. Not only had she broken a Summoning record, she had broken it _backwards_.

No because she, Frisk—a stars-damned _Red-mage—_ had not only summoned a Tier _One_ , she had summoned a monster with the lowest recorded Stats of any Familiar ever summoned in _recorded history_.

1 ATK

1 DEF

1 HP

It had one— _one—_ HP.

_ONE._

The thing would literally dust if it so much as _tripped_ , let alone entered a Confrontation. She had hoped that even if she eventually did get a Familiar it would be intelligent enough to have a conversation with, individual enough that she could…be amicable with it? She had hoped that maybe she could have a companion at the very least, not a slave as so many other Familiars seemed to be curbed to.

Of course her mishap—that left a bitter taste on her tongue—had spread throughout the Order like wildfyre. By the end of the first day no man, woman or child had not become aware of it in one way or another. She had gone from the glorified Red-mage of her year, favourite of the Magnus, to Frisk the laughing stock of the Order. To make matters worse she couldn’t even leave it behind in her dorms, away from prying eyes, in fear that it would dust itself in her absence—because _that_ would go over well.

Stars, a Whimsun would’ve been better than this, heck a _Moldsmal_ in all its gelatinous glory would’ve been better than this.

She breathed through her nose, trying to get her turbulent emotions under wraps _,_ regain her composure. Chestnut coloured eyes flickered behind her again to see the whereabouts of the— _her_ —Familiar, which happened to be gaining more and more distance between herself and it. She felt her teeth grit.

Patience.

You will have patience Frisk.

She stopped abruptly, turning to face the skeleton—who had also shuffled to a halt—and marched over to it. The strange orbs of light—eye lights, pupils?—that seemed to float within the pits of darkness watched her languidly—they seemed to serve the same purpose as eyes, Frisk found it utterly fascinating that Monsters were made and held together almost entirely by magic. She looked her familiar directly in the sockets, making sure to convey her command clearly so that there was no miscommunication in her intentions.

“Familiar.” She addressed it sharply as she’d been taught—after all Familiars of lesser intelligence needed a firm hand and clear directions.

The lazy almost fuzzy quality of the white orbs seemed to sharpen at her address.

“You‘re trailing behind, _match my walking pace.”_ She issued the last part of her sentence as a Command, hating the feeling of her magic flaring through the rune lines on her wrists. The same reaction appeared on the matching rune lines that encircled the skeleton’s radius and ulna—just another anomaly to add to her growing list, as a Familiar’s bond line tended to sit around the equivalent of their neck—flaring a deep scarlet red. As she turned back around to continue walking she pretended not to notice the distinct flare of _something_ in its eyelights. . .defiance maybe—no, that was absurd, after all it didn’t have the capability of higher thought, let alone defiance. She shook her head, readjusting the pack on her shoulders and continuing to walk forward. Hopefully now it would actually hurry u—something hard and bony snagged on the back of Frisk’s soft shoe, causing her footing to be off balance, sending her careening towards the pavement. She hit the cobblestoned street with a crack, whacking the underside of her chin against the stones, jarring her neck. Her hands that had shot out instinctively to protect her face ended up with less skin, her elbows and knees grazed. There was a silence then, only broken by her breathless wheezes. And…uproarious laughter broke out from the bystanders, melding together into a mocking discordance that buzzed in her ears. Her fists balled as she shut her eyes against the sting of shame and the prickling sensation she knew to be tears.

It wasn’t _fair_.

Her injuries throbbed as she righted herself slowly, brushing off the dust from her robes and fixing her pack. Brown eyes flickered back to the skeleton standing there motionless, the edge of its bare skeletal foot still standing on the heel of her boot. She glared at it venomously—she swore for a moment it almost seemed smug—teeth gritting.

“I told you to keep pace, not step on me you _stupid_ —!” The venom drained from Frisk’s voice as she trailed off. It still stood there unblinkingly, permanent grin still in place giving off an overall air of unassuming innocence. Horror crept into her chest as she realized she had just been about to yell at it, just like all those other Mages screaming at the uselessness of their Familiars…their slaves.

Frisk felt sick.

Yes it wasn’t fair, but it also wasn’t fair to simply blame a simple creature just following her orders, it wasn’t fair— _right_ , to forget that this creature was a living being too; one she had summoned—and regardless of its power or intelligence—was her responsibility. Even if it was unfair, getting angry at the docile Familiar would do no good. It’s life belonged to Frisk now, it was her burden and her obligation. No amount of yelling would fix that.

She breathed heavily through her nose, standing up and removing the heel of her shoe gently out from underneath the monster’s foot.

“. . . I’m sorry,” she muttered, not quite looking at her Familiar, “for yelling.” Stars she sounded so stupid. “I don’t even know why I’m trying to apologize to something that can’t even understand me.” She said to herself. Hesitating for only a moment, Frisk slowly reached for one of its skeletal hands, taking one lightly in her palm, her fleshy ones looking strange against its slightly larger stark white. It was strange—this being the first time she had truly and intentionally touched her familiar—that while the bones were hard and smooth, they were surprisingly… _warm,_ almost alive _._ The fuzzy white orbs watched her unabashedly as she gently tugged the monster forward, pulling it behind her at a steady pace in a fashion similar to how a mother toted along a child.

Finally the storm broke as the first drops fell onto the cobblestone in fat blobs of discolour. One hit the end of her nose, signifying the need for some haste. The apothecary was only a short distance a ways from them now, but with her Familiar’s top walking pace being that of an old rambling pack mule’s, they were unlikely to get there before they were both soaked through—while obviously not a problem for a sack of bones, posed the eminent threat of a head cold for Frisk, something she didn’t want or need at the moment.

Perhaps investing in a leash would be beneficial.

 

* * *

. . .

 

 

By the time Frisk managed to drag herself and her Familiar through the apothecary doors—the bell chiming—she was completely soaked through, her civilian robes sticking against her skin, hair plastered to her scalp, even her underthings had not been spared. The skeleton had water running off its bones in large drops, the brown hessian shift it donned was in no better state than her own attire. Wet shoeprints—or footprints in the monster’s case—marked their path through the small store. Dozens upon dozens of dried herbs and plants hung in bundles from the rafters, clogging up the space with a cloy smell of spices, all battling for dominance over Frisk’s olfactory sense. Behind a crowded oaken countertop, lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, were rows upon rows of glass jars and vials, holding all assortment of pickled items and salves. Behind the counter—half buried in parchment and open books—an old man tinkered away, wisps of aged white hair floating at odd angles from his scalp, a set of magnifying scopes sitting precariously upon the crown of his head. The man did not seem to notice her enter. Frisk’s hand dropped her Familiar’s—the skeletal appendage falling limply beside its form—as she marched over to the counter, swinging off her—thankfully oiled—pack and slamming it on the counter with a loud thud. The old man started, flicking almost electric blue eyes her way, they seemed to twinkle with a perceivable humour and liveliness as they took note of her form.

“Ah, Fledgling Frisk, what can a former-fashioned fellow such as I fetch for you this frighteningly ferocious day?” The man alliterated without a single pause, voice rough and old like worn leather. Frisk shook her head minutely, withdrawing a slightly damp wax-sealed envelope from a secure pocket in her pack.

“Magister Eckleson,” Frisk tilted her head in respect, handing the letter over “I have some items I am in need of procuring… _please.”_ She added the last word with a slight upward curl of her lips, no matter her mood the eccentric Magister always seemed to raise her spirits.

The man hummed as he surveyed the letter, pulling a set of half-moon spectacles to sit on the bridge of his nose. Magister Eckleson was a rather quirky old fellow, as a retired Purple-mage and former head of botany within the Order he was well respected—despite a many’s disdain for his habit of alliterating his sentences. Frisk herself was never around the old mage long enough for the wordplay to get tiring.

“A mandate for materials, many of which the Magnus approved apparently.” He mused, hmming louder. He straightened up giving a brief call, “Bumblebee.”

A small chirp noise sounded from underneath a stack of parchment, a small creature no larger than Frisk’s forearm, appearance salient to that on its real world namesake, flashed passed in a hum of black and yellow, coming to a halt beside the old man. Monsters really did come in all shapes and sizes, this one appearing more…endearing than a normal bee, almost as if a child’s rendition of the insect, possessing both a thorax and abdomen in the standard sense, six legs and antennae, but the head was rounder appearing more ‘human’ than insect, with round black eyes and a small mouth. Even the position it held itself in was more upright like a bipedal. Where two of the forelegs should have been, they seemed seem to serve the purpose of arms and hands. The Familiar was an Apidaedum, a subclass of the Insectica Class monster, as well as a Tier 4. The higher a monster was ranked in Tiers, the higher their power level, this was also somewhat synonymous with the creatures’ intelligence as well. Being a Tier 4, Bumblebee was considered of the higher-low range of summons, with a basic intellect on level with maybe a dog. A look passed between the Meister and his Summon, the latter nodding and chirping a barely audible ‘yes Master’—most certainly a taught response after years of association with a more intelligent master. It was a skill that took decades to master, but apparently when the bond was strong enough between a Summon and their Summoner, commands and intentions could be sent and communicated mentally. Frisk was reluctant to admit that she was rather envious of such a thing, being as she would never experience it herself, seeing as _her_ Familiar was about as intelligent as a rock and had the communication skills of one too.

No, she told herself as she watched the Apidaedum flitter from shelf to shelf, even if she had the most useless Familiar alive, she was going to make it work. She’d prove to all of them that she could still live up to their expectations without the help of a Summon.

“It would seem that Fledgling Frisk is now a Former-Fledgling. You found a Familiar.” The Magister noted, eyes curiously travelling to the form of the Familiar behind her. “A soporific skeleton Summon so it seems.”

Soporific…?

She turned her head, eyes flickering to the form of her Summon…who was not standing where she last left it. In fact it wasn’t even standing at all. No, because starsdammit—this was the _fifteenth_ time in _three_ _days_ —it was laying spread-eagle on the ground, eye sockets—somehow—closed, grin in place, fast asleep.

A noise somewhere between a pained groan and a scream gurgled up Frisk’s throat as she turned back to Magister Eckleson, fingers pulling her brown locks.

“What did I do? Which of the Gods, which of the Kings did I disgrace to possibly deserve this useless heap of bones?!” Frisk looked at the Purple-mage pleadingly. “Did I not eat all of my vegetables and herbs as a child? Did I cause some kind of sacrilege? Did I not study hard enough; did I not _work_ hard or long enough at my magi studies? _What did I do?!”_ Her voice had risen to a hysterical level, sounding almost salient to a sob, three days of mockery, shame and frustration compounding upon her.

A hand touched her shoulder, she looked into the Magister’s blue eyes.

“Keep calm, child.” He said gently. “Have faith Frisk, things are fated for a reason…even fatigued familiars.” He smiled knowingly at the skeleton, patting her on the shoulder once more.

Fated? Yeah right. Something obviously went wrong in her Summoning. This lamb and herself were not ‘meant to be’, it was simply an unfortunate accident she had to live with.

Bumblebee flittered back, hovering with a sack of items. The old man retrieved them, reaching out to hand them to her.

Neither of them noticed the frightened squeak the Apidaedum made upon glimpsing the slumbering skeleton’s form, rushing under a stack of papers and quivering in terror.

“Here are the supplies, now shoo, skedaddle, scamper off, I have a store to service.” He winked good-naturedly.

Tucking the items safely away into her waterproofed pack, Frisk bowed respectfully to her elder, turning back to the prone form of her Familiar. Much to Frisk’s dismay she now had to figure out how to drag the pile of bones back to her dorms—in the rain.

Stars, a leash would be really useful right about now.

. . .

She pretended not to notice on the way back the hole two pinpricks of light were burning into the back of her head when she wasn’t looking.

No.

She carried on, like she always did.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea where this crappy story came from, but ey, it needed to be written.
> 
> Apidaedum comes from the latin word Apidae, meaning bee.


	2. A Soul to Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a pile of bones is named.

 

The thud of wet squelches and the clack of bones sounded throughout the dimly lit corridor, echoing hollowly off the hewn stonework of the passageway. The paved stones of the floor were smooth, worn down from years upon years of Magi feet that tread the same path. The howling of the wind and thrashing of the rain against thin walls nearly drowned out all other noise within the near vicinity. Being a rather old building, insulation had not been efficiently designed and implemented in the ancient architecture, leaving it bitterly cold in winter and swelteringly hot the summer. Currently the passageway was stuffy and humid, the moisture in the air causing every surface to have a sticky uncomfortable feeling. Her pack—despite being oiled—was weighing down on her shoulders heavily, rubbing them raw, still wet garments uncomfortable against her skin. Frisk was impatient, anxious to drop off the supplies to the onsite apothecary and healers, desiring nothing more than to return to the comfort and sanctuary of her dorms and to run a bath in her private washroom. Stars, a bath would practically be heaven right now. Another part of her was also scared to be out in the open with her Familiar, there was no telling how the other recently graduated magi of her year would react to a Red-mage with a Tier one. Hopefully not too drastically in a public place. After all who would pass up the opportunity to ridicule an ‘oh so special Red-mage’ with faulty summoning abilities. Frisk swore that many of those in her year were so petty—just because they were all considered adults now didn’t mean their maturity was likely to change within the span of three days.

Speaking of her Familiar, the said skeleton had taken up its usual place of following behind her, the tugging of its skeletal arm was only halfhearted now as Frisk quickly realized that it was far too sturdy for her to drag along—even though it was made of bones, somehow it was rather strong, that and she was loath to use another command. Its hessian shift seemed to be in the same state as her own attire, she wondered if it was as uncomfortable as she felt. Being a skeleton with a practically non-existent intelligence it had no way of communicating its intentions or desires through any visual or verbal means—at least that she understood—so she would have to guess. She was in no way experienced enough to understand how to read its emotions through the familiar bond they shared. She supposed it needed a bath as well—even if it didn’t sweat—the pile of bones was probably miserable.

Chestnut coloured eyes flickered to its still smiling visage.

Not that one could tell with its permanent grin.

Stars, that would be weird, taking a bath with a skeleton. If it was anything like human skeletons she could probably figure out what its biological gender was—if it even had one—from the shape of its pelvis.

“Come on you lazy bones, we don’t have all day.” She said into the desolate corridor, talking more to herself than the Summon.

Lazy bones. Actually that was a rather apt description of her Familiar, seeing as it practically slept all day and all its movements were the epitome of lethargy.

Finally at the end of the stonework passageway an old oaken door could be seen; it was a heavy single slab of wood, stained and polished to a glossy finish. Frisk remembered when she was just a novice mage-let, bright-eyed and curious of the world around her—not even tall enough at the time to reach the door’s handle—that she would run her stubby fingers over the lines and grain of the oak door, half-bitten and dirty fingernails scraping at the knots in the wood, wonder and awe running wild with her imagination.

How things had changed since then.

Taking the brass handle and twisting it clockwise, Frisk attempted to shove the door inwards, barely making the old hinges squeak. She let go of her Familiar and tried with two hands and her shoulder, huffing with the effort to make the wooden door _move._ Of course it didn’t. Seeing as the moisture count in the air was much higher than usual from the storm, the old wood had expanded enough to grind into the doorframe and stone floor. Being of a considerably petite and short stature with little to no muscles—she’d been told she had beanstalk arms—her efforts to gain entry from the door were rather…futile. Groaning, Frisk lent her back against the wood, pack slipping onto a single shoulder. Stars, did everything have to go wrong today? Her eyes flickered to the skeleton standing there with a slouched stance, face the same blank smiling look as always, maybe it was the lighting, but something in the way the fuzzy white orbs stared at her looked amused.

“If I didn’t know any better—which I do—I’d say you’re enjoying watching me struggle.” Frisk muttered, looking at its ever-smiling face sourly. What was it so happy about anyway? “What have you got to be smiling about huh? You’re stuck with me and my problems for the rest of your life, you know.” She said bitterly, despite talking to the Familiar, she might as well have been talking to a brick wall for all the answer it gave. “Must be nice, not having to worry about anything, meandering through life like you do. Not having to worry about everyone judging you, placing their expectations on you.”

Frisk allowed her eyes to slip closed for a moment as she rested the back of her head against the door.

“Stars I bet they’re all laughing now, Frisk the Mage that declared she wouldn’t need a Familiar, _Frisk_ that worked her ass off every _starsdammed_ day just to end up summoning a pathetic one anyway.” She looked to the Familiar again noting its expression and stance had not changed.

“And here I go again talking to something that can’t even comprehend what I’m saying.” She muttered. “Guess all that Determination can’t even help me open a door.”

A click. Then a screech.

And suddenly the door swung inwards from her weight against it. Frisk yelped in surprise, barely managing to catch her hand on the doorframe before she tumbled backwards, her pack on the other hand wasn’t so lucky as it slid off her shoulder and landed on something with a thud.

All the while the skeleton was still smiling.

Frisk groaned, turning around in agitation, hoping to all the Holy Gods above and Accursed Kings below that none of the vials or fragile ingredients had been broken. Bending down to grab the pack, she noticed it had landed on something. Lifting the pack up she caught sight of a creature slightly larger than a cat laying flat under the pack. White, with a body that looked like a draped sheet, wings, antenna and thin limbs. Like some sort of cross between a child parading as a ghost and an insect. The Whimsun, another sub-class of the Insectica class monster—she’d read somewhere that many had trouble classing the monsters as either ghost or insect—stared at her with wide eyes. Frisk blinked in confusion, wondering whose Familiar had been squished by her pack. Its form began to quiver as its black eyes welled up with luminescent green tears.

Frisk blanched.

By the Gods Feet, Whimsun were known to be overly sensitive, they cried at the drop of a hat.

“N-no, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” Frisk said frantically trying to placate the sobbing monster.

How one actually mollified a monster was not within the lesson scope offered at the Order, Frisk hoped it was somewhat like a baby and would react to swaying motions. Forgetting about the pack she quickly grabbed the Whimsun and cradled it within her arms—stars she wasn’t taught to deal with this—and tried rocking it from side to side. It seemed to be working somewhat as the sobbing subsided to a low trilling.

“Bob?” A meek voice called from across the ward, the said Bob perked up, trilling what sounded between a hiccup and a sob. The owner of said voice and—presumably said Familiar—quickly darted to Frisk’s side. A boy—also an adult as he possessed a Familiar—dressed in soft grey robes with green trimming, proclaiming his station as a Green-mage, reached for the Whimsun, which Frisk was more than happy to divest.

“Bob, did you wander off again?” The Green-mage cooed softly. Frisk knew that as Whimsuns tended to be Tier ones and twos, the little Familiar couldn’t actually understand him. The boy—she recognized him as one of the graduating class of the previous year—flickered his eyes to her, orbs widening as he took in her form. He stepped back a little, gulping.

“Y-you’re a R-R-Red-mage?!” He practically whimpered.

Frisk wasn’t particularly surprised that he recognized her station, despite being granted special permission from her excursion to not wear her colours, after all most Red-mages were easily identifiable as there were less than thirty of them within the entirety of the Order.

“I-I-I’m v-very sorry m-my Familiar disturbed y-you.” He quivered, bowing at the waist, Bob still in his arms.

If Red-mages and their strong Determination were considered the top of the ladder, than Green-mages and their ‘weak’ Kindness were the bottom rung. While Frisk held a dislike for the classing before, her disdain of the system had only grown in the last three days. One could still be powerful despite their Source of magic and the Tier of their Familiar. There was plenty of talented mages over the course of history who had proved this—although it could not be debated that certain Sources were stronger than others. Green-mages didn’t exactly have the greatest track record of Summoning high Tiered monsters.

“No, no, its fine, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I upset your Familiar after all.” Frisk waved off the boy’s worries. “I was coming to drop off the special ordered supplies.” She held up a strap of her pack.

The Green-mage looked bemused for a moment.

“…Supplies? _Oh_ the supplies. The Head Healer has been in desperate need of those!” He exclaimed.

His Whimsun slipped from his arms hovering in mid-air by his head. The mage’s eyes darted to something behind her, as he tittered nervously.

“I-is that y-your F-Familiar?” He asked uneasily.

Chestnut eyes flickered to her Summon that—low and behold—had decided to actually move itself of its own discretion to the edge of the doorway. The Green-mage seemed anxious at its presence, she supposed seeing an animated skeleton _would_ be rather frightening at first glance. The Whimsun cautiously flittered towards the skeleton, trilling to the fellow Familiar curiously, white eyelights followed its form languorously.

“Don’t worry about it,” Frisk reassured, “Its so lazy I have to drag it everywhere, your Whimsun is more scary.”

At the same moment she uttered these words the two Familiars locked gazes, two things happened then. One, immediately the Whimsun gave a frightened squeal and broke into tears, falling to ground and crying harder, and two, the skeleton blinked, _blinked,_ a lid of malleable white bone folding down over the eye socket, then up again disappearing back into seamless bone. It almost seemed startled.

Frisk sighed.

“…most times.” She added.

It was going to be a long day.

 

* * *

. . . . .

 

Frisk nearly threw herself and the Familiar through her dorm doors in an effort to reach the peace and sanctuary of her rooms. Turning around and quickly slamming the door shut, she stumbled across the reasonable sized room towards her wooden desk chair, dropping herself down in it unceremoniously despite her still wet robes.

Stars, the trek back across the campus grounds had taken forever—the slowness both a combination of the skeleton’s pace and her need to take alternate routes in order to avoid any unwanted confrontations—but thankfully she was now finally back within her own comforts.

Frisk supposed being a Red-mage afforded certain benefits, one of them being a larger dorm area, private washrooms and no need to share her space with another. These rooms were her sanctuary, her retreat from the expectations and eyes. In here Frisk could just be herself.

Her eyes flickered to the form of the Familiar sprawled out, face down across the floor ten paces away from the door, asleep as usual.

Her dorm wasn’t quite her own anymore, not with the arrival of her Familiar, but really she supposed it was no different than having a new piece of unwanted furniture—she’d figure out how to make it fit eventually.

Frisk pulled at the damp material of her robes, fidgeting uncomfortably in them, stars she really needed to get changed, and a bath was high on the priority list too. She looked back to the Familiar—make that for both of them. Kicking her wet boots off, Frisk trudged barefooted over to the form of the sprawled out skeleton, standing over it, she prodded its shoulder with her toe.

“Wake up lazy bones, its bath time.”

The skeleton of course did not respond in the slightest, still motionless on the ground. Frisk sighed, realizing she would have to do this the hard way. Using the whole of her foot Frisk attempted roll the monster over, but barely succeeded in nudging it, she tried harder managing to get it half way over before its heavy body rolled back into the position it was in before. Frisk gave a tired groan, getting down on all fours and talking a hold of its side, she heaved, pushing her weight against it—feeling as if she was rolling over a boulder—forcing the skeleton’s surprisingly heavy frame to all at once flip over on to its back. Frisk huffed from the exertion, glaring at the smiling skeleton; being this close to it she could smell the rank odour coming from its shift.

“Stars that _stinks,”_ she covered her nose with a hand “you _really_ need a bath. Come on you pile of bones, I know you’re not asleep.”

A single white bony eyelid cracked open, white pupil watching her lazily for a moment before snaking back closed, skull lolling to the side, grin still dreamily wide. Frisk’s eye twitched in agitation.

She rolled her sleeves up.

“Fine, if that’s how you want to play it.” She growled, standing up and grabbing both the skeletons wrists, hands closing over its bond lines. She pulled with all her weight, its arms going taut—Frisk had no idea how its bones even managed to stay together—managing to drag it forward maybe half a pace before it became too heavy.

“ _Why_ do you have to make everything so starsdammed difficult?” Frisk bemoaned.

“Now _that_ has to be one of the best things I’ve seen all month.”

Frisk jumped, whipping around to face the intruder leaning casually against her bedframe. Maybe a head taller than herself, sandy brown hair styled in a fashion similar to her own and wearing casual attire with a band of red on his upper arm.

“ _Chara_ , why are you in my dorms?” Frisk asked in exasperation.

He grinned.

“Can’t I check up on my precious little baby cousin?”

Frisk gave him a pointed look.

“You could have done that any day of the week, like on my Summoning, when I became an _adult_.” Frisk was still mad at him for that.

“I was busy,” He shifted from his previous position, “congratulations by the way, but you’ll always be little Frisky to me.” Frisk attempted to duck away from his arm but Chara was too quick, reaching down to snatch her around the waist, struggling as he began to ruffle the top of her brown hair.

“Ch—Chara, Chara stop!” Frisk cried, trying to escape his torture.

“Aww, Frisky’s all grown up now but still so adorably short.” He cooed, pinching her cheek.

Frisk huffed.

“Chara stwap twying to change the subjwect!” She growled out, words slightly deformed from his grip on her cheek.

With a lithe twist of her form, Frisk managed to slip from her cousin’s hold; straightening up her—still wet—robes and glaring at her assailant.

“You only came here because you wanted to see the Familiar, didn’t you?” She said pointedly.

Chara’s face slipped into one of feigned shock, expression too wide, his hands traveled to his chest, clutching over his heart as if she had stabbed him in the chest.

“You wound me Frisky! Would _I_ ever do such a thing?” His voice held a note of hurt in it.

“You and your stupid names. And _yes_ you would.” She attempted to keep her face stern but couldn’t help the twitch at the corners of her lips from amusement.

“Yes he would. Master dragged _me_ all the way across campus to see it.” Another voice drawled, disdain and utter ennui dripping from their words.

Frisk blinked, flicking her eyes to the form of a large flower sitting on the flat surface of her desk, six large butter-yellow petals to form the corolla, surrounded the central disk, a green stem and two leaves off shooting it. The dusty orange pot it grew from had the hastily scribbled words ‘Property of Chara’ on the side. Unlike normal flowers this one sported two eyes and a mouth and was swaying slightly as if caught in the breeze, the black rune lines of a Summon scrawled down its stem, just underneath the base of the petals. The Familiar—Chara’s to be precise—exhibited its usual cantankerous expression, leaves, that functioned similar to arms, crossed in a way uncannily similar to that of a grumpy child. And that was a particularly apposite depiction of him, especially as his attitude and outlook on life were parallel to that of a sullen toddler’s. Frisk would admit that having a animated skeleton as a Familiar was weird—particularly as it was about as useful as a normal one—but having a talking windowsill decoration, a literal living flower, that reached a level of uncanny even Frisk couldn’t hope to top—and she’d seen living slimes and all other sorts of monster arbitrariness. A talking potted flower was definitely on the higher end of ‘things-you-don’t-see-everyday’ even in the case of magic-practicing Magi.

“Flowey! You would side with Frisky over your own _Meister_ , you’re supposed to be on my side!” Chara whined, doing—in Frisk’s opinion—the worst endeavor at a pout ever attempted.

The flower scoffed.

“Why would I side with a loser like you? And besides what makes you think I’m siding with Beanstalk anyway? She just has the right idea.”

Beanstalk, Frisk despised that name more than Chara’s ‘Frisky’. The propensity for nicknaming things—with any lack of creativeness—seemed to be something the Familiar had picked up from his Meister. Said Meister stalked over to the flowerpot, grinning smugly at the irate Monster.

“Oh, is that jealousy I sense?”

“No, I don’t feel jealousy.” The flower denied.

“Ah, ah, ahh~” Chara wagged a finger, “the bond doesn’t lie.”

If Flowey had a nose he would be turning it up at the Mage. “I hope the Kings devour your soul!” he spat, despite the venom in his words, Flowey couldn’t quite look his Master in the eye. Another thing the Monster had picked up from Chara, a penchant for using vulgar slang.

Frisk sighed, watching the master and servant playfully—in Chara’s case—bicker back and forth. If Frisk had ever contemplated actually wanting a Familiar, she had wished for something like that of what Chara and Flowey shared—but with perhaps less grouchiness on the part of Flowey.

Despite Chara’s overall air of goofiness and Flowey’s appearance of harmlessness on par with that of her pile of bones, the pair were anything but. Chara—immaturity notwithstanding—was the epitome of the ideal Red-mage, strong, powerful, high scores in all areas of arcane magics and mana levels nigh unheard of in a human being. Just as her cousin before her, Frisk was at the same standing as Chara in terms of sheer magical potential—perhaps even more so, or so the Magnus alleged—but where Frisk had utterly failed in Summoning, Chara excelled. Flowey was perhaps the embodiment of the old proverb ‘don’t judge a codex by its coverings’; the flower for all his grumpiness and general ineptitude being a starsdammed _flower in a pot,_ was one of the highest tiered summoned Monsters ever, and the highest in living memory. If summoning greater than a Tier 7 was nothing to laugh at and with Red-mages on average achieving Tier 8 and 9, then Chara’s familiar was unmistakably ludicrous. To think that a talking flower, a Floram, Subclass Buttercup, could be a _Kingsfucking_ Tier _12,_ higher than even the Magnus’s Elemental of Tier 11. Add that to the list with Chara’s cunning—and almost frightening enthusiasm for conflict—Flowey’s incredibly high intelligence for that of a Familiar and their nigh flawless teamwork in battle, it was no wonder Chara and his Familiar were held to such high esteem. Frisk had spent the last three years since Chara’s Summoning trying to live up to her older cousin’s achievements—and she’d been doing a starsdammed good job too—but that all went down the drain like a mage-let’s first potion assignment, years worth of studying and dreaming—

_Chara, Chara! We’ll show them, one day, me and you, the bestest mages there ever was!_

_—_ all her supposed potential and astuteness accounting for nothing because she had summoned a Tier 1. It wasn’t fair that just because she was bound to a useless heap of bones that everyone seemed to overlook the fact that she was _still_ a powerful Red-mage.

“I know you’re just as curious as I am to see Frisky’s Familiar.” Chara declared to the buttercup, chest puffed, cheeks flushed a pale red as they always seemed to be and mouth sporting a cocky grin. Before Flowey could hope to respond, Frisk seized the opportunity.

“Ah huh! I knew it. You only came to see me as an excuse to see my Familiar. Admit it!”

Chara practically wilted under Frisk’s glare, rubbing the back of his sandy brown hair sheepishly.

“Okay, okay I admit it. Stars I’m sorry, but every-mage, even the _inerts_ , wanna catch a glimpse of it. I mean have you heard the rumors flying around?”

Frisk’s glare became practically venomous.

Chara raised his hands in a placating manner. “Hey now, in my defense I really _was_ busy on the day of your Summoning, doing rounds and all; and I really do want to see my adorable little cousin.” He tacked the last bit on with a hopeful puppy dog look.

It was Frisk’s turn for her glare to wilt under the onslaught of her cousin’s infectious tomfoolery, she desperately fought the smile that was worming its way on to her features.

“Fine. I forgive you. But just so you know, you Chara are an idiot.”

“I second that.” Flowey piped up.

“Why are all my friends turning on me?!” Chara whined.

“Pft, Beanstalk is your cousin and I’m your Familiar, we don’t count as friends…not that you had any in the first place.” The flower snarked.

Chara made a choking noise, clutching his chest as if in agony; as if he were an actor in a classical overdone tragedy he proceeded to act out his long drawn out ‘death’, complete with fainting, back arching and convulsing spasms on the ground, in a final melodramatic crescendo he lay flat on his back, hand reaching skyward while the other gripped his shirt.

“Woe is I, for the Accursed Kings have struck me to deathbed, my kith and kin beaten by their plague! Curse thee, curse thee-eck!” He chocked again, his final breath escaping in a wheeze.

Silence abounded.

By all the stars above, Chara was such an idiot.

Three slow claps, one after another in consecutive order rang throughout the dorm, awarded in deadpan by the brown haired girl.

“Bravo Chara, _bravo_. When I thought you couldn’t sink any lower, you’ve managed to surpass my expectations and enter the Accursed realms Below.”

Chara flicked open chestnut coloured eyes and grinned. His gaze quickly settled onto the other occupant of the room that had since been forgotten. Rolling up to his full height Chara proceeded to slink over to the metaphorically—and obviously not—boneless figure still lying motionless at Frisk’s feet. Squatting down he peered at the skeleton, prodding its cheekbone with a single finger.

“So this is the infamous Tier 1 Familiar huh?” he pushed harder making the monster’s skull, making it loll back and forth. “Its a rather ugly thing isn’t it?” His eyes traveled the rest of its form, “and kinda stumpy too. Stars they weren’t kidding when they said you summoned a freaking skeleton, that’s nightmare fuel right there.” He muttered.

Frisk scowled at him.

“Just because its useless doesn’t mean you can get away with demeaning my Familiar.”

“Oh, and you can’t tell me you didn’t think the exact same thing the first time you saw it?”

“No.”

Well…her thoughts when she first saw it were wondering what she had done to have a personal audience with Death. Her thoughts the _second_ time she saw it were as Chara described—not that he needed to know that.

“Why does it do that?”

“Do what?”

“ _Smile_ like that.”

Frisk glanced at the permanent grin on the skeleton’s skull.

“Skulls are always grinning.”

“Not like that their not.” Chara prodded its slightly chubby cheek, “Actually, in a way its kinda cute, for a corpse. So what does it do? What are its capabilities?” Chara’s eyes lit up with a crafty light.

“Nothing but sleep and follow me around. And I have no idea—probably not much of anything—I haven’t exactly had the chance to test it yet, you know as any sparring classes for newly-bonded are on break until celebrations week ends.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Can it talk?”

“It’s a Tier 1.” She deadpanned.

“Yeah, true. Stars, you really got the short end of the stick didn’t you Frisky?”

“Stop calling me that. And no shit Magister Obvious.”

“Have you registered it yet?”

“No.”

“Have you at least _named_ it?”

There was a pause.

“. . . no.”

“Stars, what have you been _doing_ the past three days?”

“Avoiding ridicule and humiliation in the face of my bigoted peers.” She said flatly.

Chara’s demeanor immediately shifted, something violent flickering through his features, his eyes flashing momentarily a scarlet red.

“Those little Kingfuckers. Everyone knows that something went wrong in your Summoning, they’re just jealous because you have more mana in your little finger than all those brats do combined. Maybe I’ll show them—”

“— _Chara_!” Frisk barked, sharply cutting off her cousin. “Stop it. You know you are not allowed to use magic outside of an authorized zone. That includes flaring your mana.”

Chara stilled, the feeling of his scarlet magic dissipating from the air, Flowey from across the room swayed in agitation, amplified from his Meister’s flaring temper he undoubtedly felt.

Chara for all his power was a lose cannon, barely held in check by the Magisterium as it was, the only reason he hadn’t been reprimanded was because of his sheer potential. Frisk was well aware that because of her more pacifistic nature and dutiful demeanor that she was being groomed in a rather different direction than that of her cousin.

“I don’t need you setting off the wards and having the Magisterium coming down on our heads. Stop overacting.” She chided.

Chara sulked, muttering under his breath.

“Fine, fine. I know little Frisky can look after herself,” he looked back to the pile of bones on the floor. “So what are you going to name it?”

“Stars, I don’t know, I honestly haven’t thought about it.” Frisk said in exasperation. She’d been too preoccupied dodging busybodies and trying to get her shattered life into order.

“Oh?” Chara cocked his head to the side.

Frisk knew that look.

“Uh ah. No way are you naming my Familiar. You’re horrible with names Chara.”

“Am not.”

“You named your Familiar, a living flower, _Flowey_.”

“That wasn’t bad.”

“What about that one mouse you decided to keep? You called it Mousey.”

“That was creative.”

“Peppy the Pepper.”

“Inspirational.”

“…Chilly the Chilli.”

“…okay that one was kinda weird.”

“Ahggg, who _cares_ what its called. Move so I can see the Beanstalk’s stupid Familiar already.” The aforementioned Flower growled, creeper like vines spreading outwards from and around the pot, acting somewhat like spindly limbs that moved the buttercup down from the desk and along the floor. Flowey planted himself with a slight thud next to the skeleton, his features immediately screwed up.

“This thing smells like a trash bag.” The flower uttered in disgust.

“I was about to give it a bath.” Frisk muttered.

The buttercup sneered at her. “You smell just as bad.” He went back to concentrating on the supine monster, his stem growing in length as the flower raised his ‘face’ to peer at the sleeping skeleton up close. The buttercup’s expression furrowed as the petals in his corolla flittered almost nervously. Frisk’s Familiar as if sensing the presence of another monster twitched slightly, osseous eyelids sliding open to reveal black pits broken by fuzzy orbs of light, said lights sluggishly trailed to the Floram.

“Stars, that’s not creepy _at all.”_ Chara murmured.

Flowey went unnaturally still, staring at the white orbs that seemed to sharpen in attention. There was a beat then…Flowey squealed—actually _squealed—_ jolting backwards so quickly his pot tipped over, spilling dirt across her clean floor. The flower in a desperate bid to escape, completely fled its soil altogether, quickly scuttling up Chara’s arm to hide within the sanctuary of his Meister’s hair, a single eye and two petals visible from behind Chara’s ear.

. . . What just happened?

Frisk blinked, the skeleton had gone back to sleep.

“What—?”

“…So I was thinking Boney.” Chara cut in, completely breaking the tense atmosphere as if nothing had happened.

“B-boney. You want to name my Familiar _Boney_ the Skeleton? That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Frisk decided she would deal with the former incident at another time.

“You said you wanted something creative, that was creative for me. How about Skelly the Sk—”

“Starsdammit Chara, if you complete that sentence so help me.”

“Stars cuz, I was just kidding…kinda. Look I was actually thinking Stumpy the—”

“—NO!”

Chara wilted.

“U-umm what about S-Smiley—?”

“—N…Smiley?” Frisk said trailing off.

“Yeah, Smiley, because it’s wearing that permanent grin. Smiley the Skeleton…?”

Despite the stupidity and lack of imagination to the name, it surprisingly had a nice ring to it.

“…I’ll think about it.” Frisk muttered, flicking her eyes to the monster.

Smiley huh?

“I guess,” she prodded her Familiar “you’re Smiley the Skeleton now.”

An eyelid flickered open momentarily.

“Yeah that’s what I thought.”

Frisk supposed that by officially naming it she was now finally accepting the reality of her Familiar.

A useless pile of lazy bones that was all but narcoleptic, dubbed Smiley.

Joy.

. . .

Flowey was still cowering.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that took longer than I expected...the sight of blank pages fills me with PROCRASTINATION.  
> I'm actually blown away with the amount of people that seem to like my weird idea, so thank you to everyone.
> 
> Just quickly as a few people have asked, if this story in anyway resembles other works or other medias, it is purely coincidental and unintentional on my part. I do hope this doesn't affect the enjoyment of this work :)
> 
> (Of course I have taken creative liberties with Flowey's stats)


	3. A Soul to Bathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Red-mage and a skeleton take a bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I wasn't planning on writing the bath scene (or at least glancing over it) but as my readers have spoken, I have given.  
> You'll thank me for it later kiddos.

Never let it be said Frisk was unobservant—on the contrary she was the highest scoring in academics in her graduating year—but there were certain things that tended to fly right over her mousy-brown head. Anything pertaining to the opposite—or even same—sex being one—she had her big cousin and a general lack of interest on her part to thank for this. Frisk, while well educated in both battle and books inclined to be somewhat naive outside of these things, social decorum outside of strict duty, socializing in general, became a draining nightmare for one introverted Red-mage. Things that were apparent to the common man sometimes just didn’t _click_ with Frisk, she habitually overanalyzed situations—perhaps a byproduct of training to analyze battle scenarios since childhood—possibilities and what-ifs spiraling out until she just ignored them altogether. Frequently the simplest answer was often the truest.

Because there were very few things that scared Flowey, being the Tier 12 that he was.

A wet lump of bones on the floor shouldn’t have been one of those.

A Whimsun was easy enough to pass off as they generally spooked at everything, and admittedly skeletons _were_ rather scary. But an intelligent creature such as Flowey should be able to tell from the docile air of her Familiar on the floor that it was harmless. No one else seemed to react the same way, at least not after the initial glance. Perhaps the reactions were a resultant of some magical presence humans could not perceive? Admittedly monsters were far more animalistic inclined in nature—even civilized and domesticated Familiars displayed tendencies of this—it wouldn’t be too farfetched to assume that this was some kind of monster custom, one that her Familiar was failing at.

Frisk was in no way going to accept that a 1 HP monster, a Tier 1 that slept all day and could have the intelligence parallel to a rock, that her Familiar, _Smiley_ was actually frightening to other monsters. Frisk completely shut the thought from her mind; it was too ludicrous to be true.

If she asked the flower upfront, he would simply skirt around the issue or say something rude. The matter could wait for another time.

Chestnut eyes flickered down to the tipped over pot, soil spilling onto her clean wooden floor. Delightful, another mess to clean.

“Hey Frisky? You know how you said all the sparring classes are closed until the end of celebrations week?” Chara suddenly piped up.

Frisk raised an eyebrow.

“Well I was thinking—”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Frisk remarked.

“—Ha, ha, _very_ funny. But I was thinking that if you wanted to test your Familiar’s—Smiley’s abilities, then we could always use the training grounds I normally train at. I’ve been itching to have a practice Confrontation with you since I Summoned Flowey. Besides, you look like you could let off some steam.” He continued.

“Firstly, how the Accused Below did you get away with using the training grounds without a Supervisor? You and I are both Probationary Mages, we’re not allowed on an unrestricted magic zone without a Licensed Mage, particularly myself seeing as I literally just became an adult three days ago.” She reminded him.

If a child was found to have magical potential, they were taken before the Magisterium and registered, depending on the child’s age, they either returned to live with their parents or when they turned age seven became enrolled in the Order. For the next nine years the Fledgling leant how to harness their magic and learn the ways of the arcane. And at age sixteen considered adults, mages summoned their first Familiar. For a final four years the newly bonded were on probation, learning how to communicate and work with their Familiar to become active members of society. In their twentieth year a Mage became fully licensed, joining a guild that best suited their talents. Chara, being nineteen, was in his final year of Probation, Frisk being sixteen, was in her first.

“Pff, no-one cares about those stupid old rules anyway, no one ever tells me off.” Ergo, everyone was too scared of the capricious Red-mage with the Tier 12 Familiar to bother. “And you’re a Red-mage anyway, you know you can get away with it. Besides old Maggie would practically encourage it!” He grinned knowingly.

“One of these days I’m going to be around to see you call the Magnus that. And laugh at you because you were put on inert-sitting duty.” Frisk remarked dryly. She shifted uncomfortably, reminded of the scratchy damp material of her robes as they started rubbing against her skin again.

“Look, can we do this tomorrow Chara? I’m tired, it’s raining and I need a bath,” she gestured to the motionless corpse on the ground, “and this useless heap does as well.”

Her gaze flickered to the buttercup still hiding behind his Meister’s hair.

“Besides, I doubt Flowey is very impressed with Smiley, or in the right mindset to enter a safe Confrontation.”

The said flower peeked out from under Chara’s hair, glowering at Frisk.

“I’m not scared stupid Beanstalk! I just—its, its…” Flowey suddenly trailed off, hiding further in Chara’s hair, refusing to further elucidate himself.

“I suppose you’re right. Flowey is being kinda temperamental, he needs a nap anyway,” the Floram growled out something that sounded like loser, “but you’re not skipping out on me tomorrow, got it?”

Frisk sighed, knowing Chara wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Yeah, yeah. I got you. Now go back to your own dorm, and knock next time before barging in.” Frisk muttered.

Once again before Frisk could dodge Chara had her in a headlock, ruffling her brown hair affectionately.

“Aww, so eager to get rid of me huh? Well teeny-weeny Frisky-bisky you can’t cause I grow on ya.”

“Like a fungus.”

“Heh, well I’ll see you tomorrow cuz.” He released his captive, practically skipping to the door with glee.

Frisk quickly scooped up the pot and tossed it at Chara who caught it with deft hands.

“You’re lucky I’m not making you clean up this mess!” She called after him.

“You love me too much for that Frisky!” He responded cheerfully as he shut her door behind him.

The dorm was plunged into silence—almost deafening after the absence of Chara—a quiet she had been craving all day. Frisk slumped against the wall of her dorm looking out upon the mess of dirt and muddy wet streaks across the redwood floor. Frisk liked things organized, she did not tolerate mess, and this disorganization of her most private space was tormenting and unsettling, out of place—where it was possible—being cleanly settled her nerves…but—Frisk tugged at the collar of her robe—having a bath and getting into dry clothes should come first. But there was the matter of—chestnut eyes watched the lump of motionless bones reproachfully—a certain stinky skeleton newly dubbed Smiley to deal with. She’d barely been able to move it before, she was sure the effort it would take to not only drag it across her room into the bathroom and actually bathe it would completely wear out what little energy she had left for the day. And considering the sun was close to setting, Frisk was extremely ready for bed, and not dealing with anything.

You know what, she’d run the bath first and drag her Familiar over afterwards.

* * *

. . .

Steam rose from the pooling water, creating a hazy layer across the small washroom, rushing into the porcelain bathtub that sat on clawed feet. The hot already pre-heated water flowed out of the tap through the piping built into the walls, rushing up from the boiler rooms deep underneath the Order, which harnessed the natural hot springs present there. Heated water in large quantities was a rather rare commodity, one which many of those outside of the Order and surrounding towns did not have access to—unless of course they had enough money to pay the expensive process of pumping it from the Order itself. Seeing as Frisk herself was a Red-mage and had the privilege of having her own dorm and private bathroom and not forced to share with another, didn’t have to worry particularly about having her hot water rationed, that or try to bathe in the communal baths with the other girls—that was a particular thought that sent Frisk into a round of chills, gossiping and interacting with naked people, both young and _old_ did not appeal to her. While many seemed to find it a stimulating social activity, Frisk shied away from it with a particular prejudice. The water was beginning to froth, a pleasant aroma filling the air from the herbal extract—given to her and prepared by Magister Eckleson a while back—in the water. While Frisk was not one for opulent smells and floral lotions many of her peers enjoyed using, this particular extract held many relaxing properties, good for stress and soreness.

She decided for tonight she would allow herself this one luxury to indulge with.

Stepping out from the white tiled washroom and back into the main area of her dorm, Frisk reluctantly trudged her way over to Smiley asleep on the floor—well maybe not completely asleep, she had seen it open an eye…socket, at her before. Still lying supine, Frisk prodded the Familiar with her toe for good measure in order to ascertain it wasn’t going to move on its own anytime soon. Definitely not.

As she’d learnt last time, dragging Smiley by its arms was not very effective, she supposed, as the skeleton was humanoid—except without flesh or skin—that using a recovery position, taught in Recovery Class, would work relatively well. The position utilized leverage in order to combat a limp or lame persons weight, very effective with an unconscious or disabled person on the battlefield. Of course Frisk being so slight had difficulty lifting someone of larger size than herself, not that Smiley was particularly taller—certainly bulkier though—than her. Crouching down, Frisk pulled on the skeleton’s shoulders, forcing the floppy monster into sitting position, its head lolled forward, nearly falling asleep with its skull on its chest. Slipping her arm underneath one of its own arms, around the back of the ribcage and spine, she grabbed under its—well the equivalent any way—armpit. Pulling the other over her shoulder, which she secured in place with a hand. It was disconcerting to feel the ribs from underneath the hessian shift poking into her, the white of the bone feeling smooth and strangly nice like glazed ceramic or perhaps the same texture as glass underneath her finger tips, once again it amazed her how something that was a literal corpse—cold lifeless bone—could be so warm. Centering herself, Frisk heaved upwards, forcing the skeleton’s weight on her back.

Her knees nearly collapsed out from under her.

“ _Stars!_ ” She grunted in surprise at how _heavy_ it was. Bone was supposed to be _light_. “What in all the Accused Below have you been _eating_? Stars, I’d say you’re fat if not for the fact that you’re made of Kingsfucking bones.” Frisk gritted out as she began to make her way slowly over to the bathroom, Smiley’s skeletal feet making a strange noise as they dragged limply across the wooden flooring. Starsdammit, this would be so much easier if she was allowed access to her magic. Through gritted teeth, a fair amount of determination and a herculean effort, she managed to drag the Familiar to her bathroom, unceremoniously dumping her Familiar on the ground before her knees gave out. Frisk leaned against the wall panting, she knew this would be so much easier if she gave it a command, but, the act of forcing her will upon another creature—even one as dumb as Smiley—felt _wrong._ Stepping over the dead weight, she turned of the running tap, breathing in the sweet air of the herbal extract. She’d give Smiley a quick bath first—seeing as skeletons didn’t sweat or need shampoos or oils for hair and skin—and then take one after it was finished.

“Come on Smiley, time to get clean.”

She finally coaxed the skeleton—with much effort—into a standing position, its weight resting against hers. Frisk hesitated for a moment, before reaching for the hem of the shift that came to nearly half way down the skeleton’s femurs. Suddenly the previously floppy skeleton tensed against her, leaning minutely from her hold. Frisk trailed her chestnut eyes up to meet with the now open eye sockets and sharp pinpricks of white floating in a sea of blackness that stared at her. For some reason she felt uneasy, was this what Flowey and the other Familiars felt when they locked eyes with it?

“I…” for reasons Frisk couldn’t understand, she felt the need to explain herself. “I’m just going to remove your dirty shift, you can’t take a bath in clothes.” She murmured, gaze still locked with the skeleton’s, her words were sincere, there was no intent behind them other than of chastity.

The white eyelights softened; posture slumping again, yet not fully resting on her. Frisk hesitated only a moment more before gently hitching up the garment over its pelvis to its ribcage until it got trapped by its arms. With difficulty she managed to pull the scratchy material up over its skull and off its arms, dropping the wet shift onto the tiled floor behind her. Frisk blinked, finally taking in the sight of the bare skeleton, a scene she had only seen in passing and once before on the day of her Summoning ritual. She had only given it a cursory glance then, but now she studied it with an inquisitive vestal and purely clinical curiosity. When she had remarked that the monster resembled a skeleton, a human one, the comparison was imprecise at best. While Smiley was a skeleton they most certainly weren’t a _human_ one. Its bones were thicker, much thicker than that of a human’s, sturdier too, the humerus wider than her upper arm that was covered in flesh. It seemed to have less ribs in the ribcage of a human, certain bones stockier and fused together—like its mandible and skull—in a sturdier frame. The palms of its hands seemed to have some sort of osseous structure fused over and between the carpals and metacarpals. The vertebrae of the spine were larger in proportion to the support of its body, unlike the fragile structure of a human’s. The spaces between the bones where cartilage should be were empty, but tighter and held together by some invisible force—magic Frisk assumed. Should the Familiar and one of the classroom anatomy skeletons stand side by side, the differences would be very noticeable, inhuman in every sense of the word.

Frisks eyes trailed down to the pelvis bone, noting it was nearly identical to that of a human skeleton. Frisk had to recall back to anatomy lessons she had learn of the human skeletal system long ago, trying to remember the slight differences between that of a male and female’s. Females tended to have pronounced and wider hipbones—ilium she believed was the proper term—and wider…pelvic inlets? And an increased angle of how the femur connected to the pelvis and lower leg bones. Smiley’s seemed narrower, less feminine, but it was hard to tell without a reference, just something about the way they held themselves seemed more, masculine? Yeah, Frisk was going to go with, biologically speaking, that Smiley was a male. The pronouns of he and him seemed right.

Wow, and she was going to bath him.

Snapping from her stupor, Frisk guided Smiley over to the rim of the bath, pushing it— _him_ into the warm water without much resistance, he almost seemed to slide into the water and suds, entire body looking like it had just melted, frame flopping completely into a relaxed state, osseous eye lids sliding closed. Stars, her Familiar seemed to be able to make anything or any position comfortable, Frisk was almost jealous of how comfortable he was. Of course when the skeleton began to slide further into the water, the liquid beginning to creep up its mandible and nasal cavity and then eye sockets, Frisk realized he was so relaxed that he wasn't holding himself above water…and bones didn’t float.

The stats of 1 HP flashed through her head like a screaming warning sign.

Smiley was going to Kingsfucking drown.

Starsdammit, she was not going to tell the Magnus that she had accidentally let her lump of a skeleton drown of her third day of having him.

“Nope!”

Frisk darted forward, grabbing the submerged skeleton by the humerus and yanking him above water.

“Okay bathing you like this is not going to work.” She concluded.

Guess there was no helping it; the only way to get him clean without letting him drown was to get in the bath with him…that sounded kind of lewd. No, it was like bathing with a really small child or a baby. Keeping an eye on the propped up skeleton, she quickly removed the robe and all its components over her head, letting the garments fall to the floor leaving her standing in only her chest bindings and plain underwear. Reaching to undo the bindings she froze when she felt the gaze of Smiley settle on her. The white orbs were sharp again, holding something in them Frisk couldn’t read. She continued undoing the bindings, sliding off her underwear before standing up, arms crossed over her chest almost self-consciously, as to why she felt nervous in front of a skeleton, a creature that surely couldn’t understand anything of a sexual nature whatsoever—he was a skeleton for the Holy Gods sake, there was nothing on his pelvis. Perhaps it was her own unconscious reaction to being watched, Frisk was the first to admit she was rather low in self-esteem, especially when it came to her own body image. She was very slight in form, petite, without very noticeable hips or breasts, perhaps a touch androgynous, short in stature for the majority of girls her age. Chara had jokingly said she would blow away in the wind. Sighing, Frisk approached the bath tentatively, still holding Smiley’s humerus so he wouldn’t slip again. Her heart gave a nervous flutter when she dipped her leg into the warm water.

No. Frisk stop it. You’re bathing with a skeleton, not a actual person, its no different that getting in the bath with an anatomical figure from the classroom. This thought helped to assure her as she slipped in behind Smiley, back against the porcelain edge of the tub, resting the spine and sturdy weight of the skeleton against her front. He didn’t seem to be relaxing in the same way as before, slightly rigid against her, poor thing probably wasn’t used to taking baths. It was really weird to feel the unclothed bones poking into her flesh, particularly the weight of his femurs on her thighs.

Reaching behind her, Frisk retrieved the yellow washcloth sitting on the edge of the tub, dipping it into the water and running it against the outside of his humerus in even strokes. Curiosity getting the better of her, Frisk trailed her fingers along Smiley’s right scapula, feeling across the contour of the smooth bone, he stiffened again. Frisk continued, moving to the edge of the clavicle, trailing its length—Smiley progressively getting more ridged as she went—her fingers accidently dipped too far, brushing lightly against the underside of the bone making the monster jolt in the fastest movement she’d ever seen her Familiar make. Frisk abruptly pulled back her questing hands, hoping she hadn’t hurt him.

“S-sorry!” she apologized reflexively—despite the Familiar’s lack of comprehension—waiting anxiously to see if the 1 HP monster was about to fall apart. When nothing happened Frisk sighed in relief, continuing to rub the washcloth over her Familiar but with far more care and notice of his reactions. When she paid particular attention to the spaces in between the vertebrae of his upper spine—noticing a slight build up of dirt—she tried to use the cloth to clean them out, when it was too big, Frisk gently used her uneven fingernail to ever so gently scrape out the dirt. The tenseness practically melted out of Smiley, Frisk raised a eyebrow at the reaction, scrapping her nails further down each vertebrae, finding it rather amusing when the skeleton nigh purred—at least the silent skeleton equivalent. She tucked said information away for a later date. Smiley began to slip again, slowly sinking under the water. As using a hand constantly to hold him up was getting tiring, Frisk raised her knees and crossed her legs, the limbs sitting between the ribs and pelvis of the chest cavity, becoming a physical barrier to stop the skeleton submerging further. With his head half out of the water. Spine and upper ribs pressed between her legs, Frisk absentmindedly washed the top of Smiley’s skull.

From her position Frisk could not see the minute cyan blue dusting that spread along his cheekbones, nor would she as Frisk was too invested in contemplating how weird her life had gotten in the span of three days.

____

 

 ____

Frisk decided to skip over Smiley’s pelvis—he had nearly jolted out of her lap when she brushed against the iliac crests—turning him around so he faced her, leaning against the other end of the bath so she had better access to the soles of his skeletal feet, which had a build up of mud between the interspacing bones because of him walking around barefooted—or the skeletal equivalent. When she was finally finished with those she made sure he wasn’t going to slide down into the water without her noticing. Tending to her own needs, frisk rubbed her fragrant-free shampoo through her short strands, and scrubbed her body with the washcloth until her skin was red and raw, in the meanwhile her Familiar had once again melted against the side of the tub, but his eyelids were not completely closed, only half lidded, orbs not quite so sharp anymore but steadily growing more fuzzy as time went on. Frisk felt her own movement slow, sleepiness washing over her, the last day catching up rather quickly.

Yawning, she stretched, standing up as the water trailed down her form. She barely managed to pull the somnolent skeleton away from the warm bath, guiding Smiley to be toweled off. On the way out of the washroom she snagged all the dirty clothes, dumping them into the hamper that sat beside the door—which she’d take down to laundry in the morning. Still wrapped in a towel—she couldn’t get Smiley’s to stay on—she led her Familiar over to her closet. Quickly slipping on new underthings and a white nightgown, she searched through her clothes for something suitable for a skeleton to wear—she could hardly allow him to wear that stinky sack again—silently thanking the Gods above that her Familiar was humanoid and wouldn’t need specifically tailored clothes. Finding one of her older larger nightgowns—a misplacement she had forgotten to return years ago—that was more neutral in style than her own, she quickly dressed Smiley in it, the hem of the garb reaching his knees—patella, for some reason he seemed to fill out this particular attire better than the last. It kind of looked weird, but it was better than the skeleton walking around bare boned. Frisk sluggishly trailed off to bed, flicking off all but a single gas lamp as she went. Frisk hadn’t had the chance to get bedding for her Familiar yet, so Smiley had a tendency to curl up asleep wherever was most comfortable—stars knew how the cold floor was comfortable—his seemingly favorite spot appeared to be the big old armchair donated to her by the Magnus that faced towards the small fire stove in the corner of the room.

When her eyelids slipped closed she did not notice the ceaseless white gaze that stared at her unblinkingly, relentless and unwavering for long into the night.

* * *

. . .

She dreamed of orange that night, and of spaghetti and the homey smell of burning pasta.

She dreamed of loneliness and a longing so deep it ached.

She dreamed of a cold that bit and seeped into the marrow of her bones.

She dreamed of pain, being ripped in two.

And she dreamed of a shadowed figure, like the image of death reaching a boney hand, howling at her to return what she took.

Return what she stole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez I did not expect the amount of attention this story would get O.o'  
> Thank you everyone for all the lovely reviews, bookmarks and kudos. I'm just blown away.


	4. A Soul of Reverie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line between reality and fantasy blurs in dreams.

There is a smell.

Strong and tangy—tomatoes? —and…burning.

The smell of smoke on most occasions doesn’t sit well with her, yet…for some reason it smells _right_ , homey.

It kind of reminds her of pasta…burning pasta.

She hears next.

The clattering of pots and pans, metal on metal, the roar of flames, the bubbling of boiling liquids, the chinking of cutlery and crockery being set on wood.

It’s nice.

Soothing.

Relaxing.

She feels calm, almost sleepy, she hasn’t— _he hasn’t felt this at ease is a long time. He’s very content to simply sleep here, to forget about the deep longing ache in his ribcage, to forget about all the responsibility. Yes he wants to simply lay here in his home with his broth—_ with her…her? She loses her train of thought. She’s lulled again by the background noises.

There is a series of uniform taps—footsteps maybe? —that progressively come closer, louder.

A voice, almost nasally, rather formal sounding, but ultimately a surprisingly agreeable tenor. Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time— _of course it was familiar, this voice belonged to his—_ she couldn’t quite process that last thought.

“NYEH! WAKE UP LAZY BONES, I HAVE PREPARED DINNER.” The familiar-unfamiliar voice stabs through her tranquility like a hot knife through butter.

She gives an involuntary groan, wanting to sink deeper into the plush cushions she rests on. Her wants are apparently invalid as her body shifts, lips and tongue forming words she doesn’t consent to.

“come on, bro. i’m tired.” The voice is hers—from her throat, her mouth—a high feminine tone, yet the mannerism of the words, the pronunciation is wrong, off somehow, too colloquial sounding, a lazy half-hearted drawl, like she’s doing a bad impression of another’s voice.

“I AM AWARE THAT YOU ARE EXHAUSTED FROM THE ARDIOUS JOURNEY HERE, BUT THAT IS ALL THE MORE REASON FOR YOU TO PARTAKE IN A MEAL, TO REPLENISH YOUR MANA RESERVES.”

The familiar-unfamiliar voice continues.

“THAT IS WHY I HAVE TOILED FOR HOURS TO PREPARE FOR YOU A HUMAN DELECACY. THEY SAY IT WAS PREPARED FOR THEIR GODS AS AN OFFERING!”

She turns over, pushing face into what is undoubtedly a plush cushion of sorts.

The familiar-unfamiliar voice tuts disapprovingly.

“ _░░░_ , WAKE UP.”

…What? Her brow furrows. What did the voice just say?

“ _░░░_ _.”_

The word sounds like a garbled mess of pitches and vowels, what is it? — _What is it?_ _Of course he knows what it is._ _░░░_ _is a name._ His _name_ —her name? That doesn’t sound right.

Her body moves involuntarily again, away from the warmth of the cushions, eyelids sluggishly sliding open. She wants to shriek at her body to stop starsdamned moving without her permission, because the light is blinding, so, so bright, everything just vivid blobs of colour, yet so startlingly clear, like looking through a magnifying glass and a telescope, the views superimposed over one another. It’s so well-defined and so brilliant she can’t physically process what she’s seeing, colours in a spectrum she cannot hope to fathom. One thing she does recognise is the big blob of gaudy orange that moves in her view.

“okay, i’m coming, just tired. i’m sure this _human delicacy_ will taste cool cause you made it bro.” She seemingly sighs in defeat, her body moving once again, weaving through the too-vivid scene with ease, almost like she’s riding second-saddle on her own horse. The familiar-unfamiliar voice she’s associated with the orange blob, leads her across to what she assumes is a table and chairs, judging from the smooth surfaces as she runs the pads of her fingers over them.

The meal set in front of her— _him is rather odd looking. He eyes the ‘human’ food with a barely veiled disgust, anything from the human realm warrants such a reaction but because his brother made it he would eat every last bite._

_“…heh, what it it?” He asks with feigned interest—it’s hard to express true interest in anything these days._

The orange blob outwardly puffs up with pride.

“THE DISH IS WIDELY REVERED AS SPAGHETTI!”

 _…spaghetti?—_ Spaghetti? As in the tomato based pasta dish originating from the Issily Isles? She was actually rather fond of it. From the blurs of colour she figures she’s attempting to wrangle the long strands of pasta onto a utensil—once again riding second-saddle is starting to become tedious. She’s actually looking forward to the taste, and its, its…indescribable.

What the Below?!

This isn’t spaghetti. It’s somehow sweet and overly salty, an unnatural blend of flavours that most definitely shouldn’t be in a pasta. Even through her saturated vision she can tell the way it shimmers is definitely not normal, as if someone ground up opal into a fine dust an sprinkled it in the sauce.

What is this? It’s disgusting, it’s horrible, it’s— _it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Even though he almost wants to purge like he’s consumed corrupted mana, its great._

“WELL?”

_He grins wide._

_“best thing i’ve ever tasted.”_

_And it is._

_Because his brother made it, it means the realm to him. And he’d never say any different._

* * *

. . .

Her chest hurts.

It aches.

So, so much.

Where is it?

Where are they?

This void in her heart—soul—hurts. So. Damn. Much. It has for so long.

Where are they?

This loneliness is consuming her.

It’s not right—not fair—that she’s alone. Been alone, even now.

Where are they?

The loneliness is slowly decaying her from the inside out.

It hurts.

She _—He_ needs _them._

_Where are they?!_

* * *

_. . ._

_He doesn’t like the cold._

_Snow drifts passed in a flurry of white, just discernible particles of complexly formed frozen water migrating lazily in the air._

_Perhaps once—long ago—he could have admired the rigid beauty, now he sees only a cold frozen rain, bringing merely the tidings of melancholy and misery._

_He doesn’t like the cold._

_Frost covers the ground, coheres to every surface, binds to his clothes, his bones. Blankets everything in the eviternity of winter’s touch._

_He doesn’t like the cold._

_And yet it clings to him, penetrates him, deep, deep into the marrow of his bones, deeper, down to his soul._

_Its so cold—_ so cold it hurts. She’s never felt anything as cold and biting as this. Why is it so cold?— _Because the cold is as much apart of him as his bones._

_He hates the cold._

_And he will never be rid of it._

* * *

. . .

 

It hurts.

Oh stars it _hurts_.

Hurts, hurts, hurts so bad.

Her soul is being pulled right from the confines of her chest.

It hurts.

She curls in on herself, like a child in the womb, fingers digging into her scalp— _phalanges scraping across his skull._

_It **hurts!**_

She’s being ripped apart— _ripped in two._

She’s screaming, but its not her voice that comes out.

 _He’s_ the one that’s screaming.

* * *

_. . ._

Bare feet tread across the hard ground, pace frantic, hurried and uneven. Its so cold she cannot feel the tips of her fingers and toes, so cold her frenetic breaths are visible as puffs of white fog—harsh gasps escaping her blue tinged lips. The white of her night gown flutters around her as she runs, the smooth material—worn to softness after years of use—catching in the air.

It’s behind her, bringing with it the biting cold of frigid winters, the cold of death.

“thief.”

Its voice is a dark and heavy thing, a deep rumbling baritone, commanding, magisterial—yet almost colloquial, rather out of place—harrowing.

She runs faster, flying down identical halls of stone, randomly turning this way and that in a desperate bid to escape.

She knows not what she has stolen, or even if she is the thief at all, only that it will not stop until she is caught.

The edge of her nightgown tangles between her legs and she trips.

She whimpers as she lies there, from both the pain and the fact that she is going to with utter certainty die lying here in the cold. She manages to drag herself forward to the wall which denies her final hope of escape. She sees it then, with her back pressed to the wall, knees drawn in close—perhaps an unconscious effort to put a barrier between it and herself—a large towering figure swathed in shadows and grey. Its face is wreathed in darkness, almost swallowed; she wonders it the cowl was to be drawn there would be nothing at all. Clutched within its hand is a staff, white light flared through the thick mists behind it, its form as a barely perceivable silhouette, casting a dark shadow across her own form.

She feels small, like a child.

A hand.

A hand bare of flesh and sinew, revealing bone underneath, skeletal in nature—yet not human in the slightest—reaches towards her. Glowing cyan ruins encircle the two bones of its wrist—her own begin to burn in response.

“give it back. give back what you stole.” Death demands.

She desperately shakes her head, trying to cry that she has stole nothing, but her words remain unsounded.

“ t h i e f . ”

Her words won’t come out.

“mine. they are mine.”

Frost crawls along the ground.

“and now…”

The pause seems to last an eternity.

The skeletal hand reaches forwards as if to possess her.

“ _s o  a r e  y o u .”_

She screams until she can scream no more.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys.  
> You guys are a way too nice. I don't even...I can't even fathom why so many people like this. This silly little story of mine, my occasional escape from reality. It's ineffable how much I appreciate every kudo and bookmark. How much I appreciate every single comment. I know I may not reply to everyone but I get giddy when I see a new comment, I literally squeal and fangirl (and on occasion roll around on the floor like a lunatic) when I hear people's feedback. It makes me extremely happy.  
> And the fact that you all continue to read this despite the fact that my updates are and will be far and few between.  
> Geez. 
> 
> Enough of my emotional ranting. I am sorry for the delay though, the speed at which I write is comparable to a tortoise, add that with drawing a manga in my spare time and working, chapters can be difficult to get out.
> 
> Once again thank you, and take it from me, I sincerely appreciate all the feedback. Even the silent ones. (I know your out there~)


	5. A Soul to Contend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Indigo.

She did not wake with a start.

There was no frightened scream.

No sudden jump to awareness.

Only a slow gradual awakening, the last vestiges of sleep and dreams—of bone-chilling cold, death cloaked in darkness, the lingering words of thief and belongings—clinging like spiders silk to her skin. Fleetingly a barely tangible, gossamer-like presence shifted within the shallows of her sleep-addled mind, swiftly darting away into obscurity before she could fully grasp its existence. Brown lashes—average in length—slowly flittered open, revealing bleary orbs of chestnut, partially stuck together with dried sleep.

Frisk groaned at the sound of the rattling pipes carrying the morning’s supply of hot water to the early risers.

Why anyone needed—or wanted—to get up this early on celebrations week when there was no classes for another four days yet, was anyone’s guess.

Taking the top of her two pillows, Frisk shoved her head under it, trying to block out the flooding in light of the early morning and the stars-awful noise. It helped somewhat; enough that her consciousness began to drift off again.

Even as she slipped back into the fog of sleep, she just knew it was going to be one of those days.

* * *

. . .

It was one of those days.

“You stupid.”

Tug.

“Lazy.”

Tug.

“Useless.”

Tug.

“Indolent.”

_Tug._

“Good-for-nothing lump!” Frisk gave another heave, hands around the skeleton’s right tarsal—the human equivalent of the ankle—as she attempted to pull the sleeping pile of bones off the armchair.

“Don’t do this to me today. We have to go so I can get you registered, and some proper clothes. And Chara will start whining if I’m late.” She heaved again, managing to slide Smiley’s form a few inches further off the chair. “Stop. Being. Difficult!” She punctuated each word with an almighty heave, giving one last final lurch she managed to get the Familiar into standing position—or more a slumped vertical lean—the nightgown that had begun to ride up his hips from all her tugging, slipping back down around his knees. The particular garment wasn’t especially flattering, being too large and baggy, the slightly off white blending in with the stark of Smiley’s bones. But it certainly triumphed the hessian shift—may as well have been a potato sack—in looks, if not practicality. Of course Smiley being humanoid in form meant he wouldn’t need a specifically tailored dress, meaning she wouldn’t have to spend a fortune—which she didn’t have—trying to find something that fits. She could probably locate something on one of the concession clothing racks; they usually had an assortment of bargains waiting to be found.

Whilst maneuvering the skeleton out the door, locking it behind her and trudging her way through the maze of hallways that were the dorms, she couldn’t help but notice that Smiley seemed to be rather lethargic…not that _that_ particular descriptor for the skeleton was surprising but…it wasn’t just the simple laziness she had witnessed the skeleton displaying over the last four days, but something deeper. Chestnut eyes scanned the Familiar’s form, noting the way his slouch seemed to be heavier—limbs and spine curling downwards further than what good posture dictated, bare feet planting heavier against the wood floor—the strange osseous eyelids of malleable bone half lidded and beginning to droop more and more as the moments passed. Smiley’s entire demeanor just lacked energy, vitality, more so than usual, and at this rate they would barely make it to the registrar by sundown.

She wasn’t entirely sure what was the cause of his lapse; Chara would probably have a better idea of what was going on with her Familiar than Frisk did.

The walk was quiet, bar the echoing of footfalls on the floor.

It was early enough that everyone was either still in bed, or for those that still decided to rise early on a holy day were in the mess hall having their first meal of the day. Exactly the most opportune time for her to sneak her Familiar around without the entirety of the order watching. She wasn’t sure she could live down the humiliation of everyone seeing her Tier One Familiar—that was embarrassing enough as it was—being lugged around in a baggy nightgown, what little reputation she had left would quickly be washed down the drain along with her dignity.

She didn’t make it two steps out the door.

“Surely that thing cannot be your Familiar. I mean I heard the rumors that it was a hideous abomination of magic, but a walking corpse is a new low, even for you.”

The posh lilting accent grated against Frisk’s ears, grated, just as she was grating her teeth against one another in an attempt to be mature and not respond to the deliberate rile. Her fingers tightened around Smiley’s humerus, which she had been using to tow the Familiar along. She pressed her lips together and remained silent.

Stephira Hyacinth-Suzerain was one of the old-blood mages, a descendent from a—no _the_ prestigious Suzerain Family and its seven branches. A scion, a noble, a high born in all but name, be it for the fact that amongst the Magi community low and high birth was ‘supposed’ to make no distinction. Magic was magic after all. Stephira was one of those girls that everyone alike both adored and envied with equal fervor. She was remarkably—perhaps unfairly some would hiss—pretty, with mocha skin—nigh a required facet of all those of the Suzerain line— and pale blue eyes that glittered with a sharp light. Her hair was a subtle blue in colour as well, dyed, as was in trend for many young magi, and full lips painted a royal blue. As was expected of her station she was adorned with the latest fashion trends among her peers. Frisk could smell the sweet and spicy combination of smells from her exotic perfume. Her black robes were the standard issue that all mages typically wore, although of a far better weave and make then her own, the indigo tippet hanging from her shoulders—the ends tucked through her belt—proclaimed her as an Indigo Mage. Widely hailed as the second highest form of magic, Integrity, following closely behind Determination.

“After all, a fake-mage such as yourself would never amount to anything above your station as a low-born. That thing you summoned is only irrefutable proof that you are undeserving of wearing a Primary colour.” She declared.

Fake-mage. Underserving of a Primary colour. Of course…it was somewhat a matter of pride for those of the Suzerain that the majority of the Red mages born within the last three generations were exclusive to the Erythros-Suzerain branch. Including Chara and herself, Frisk could count on one hand the Red-mages outside of that line—none of them anywhere near her or her cousin’s age. Stephira in particular took her family pride to extreme levels, wearing it on herself like a badge, she seemed to take particular delight in reminding Frisk of her ‘place’. Frisk had spent many a day locked in her dormitory bawling her eyes out because of Stephira’s antics. Chara had become her personal shield for much of her younger years.

But that was then, and this was now.

Frisk had grown up much faster than her peers, out of sheer necessity. She never raised a hand, never responded, she was above such things.

She remained silent, breathing through her nose, taking a step, she began to pull Smiley behind her.

But that didn’t mean the words didn’t hurt.

“Tch. Ignoring me now?” The words were said with an underlying derision and thinly veiled annoyance.

Stephira in many ways was still a child.

Frisk continued to walk away, seriously considering piggybacking her stupid Familiar as to get to the tailors—and away from Stephira—as quick as possible.

She felt it before she heard it.

A flare of Mana.

A growling rumble.

A Command.

“Trinity. _Pounce.”_

Something purple flashed in her peripheral. She barely turned in time to watch as a lavender coloured feline, clad in a indigo collar—similar in size to a very large dog—with wolverine like claws and two serpentine tails sped towards them, fangs bared. A Chimera Class Familiar, likely Tier 7 or 8, her mind instantly supplied. What the Below was Stephira doing?! Attacking another human except under very specific circumstances was illegal. Time seemed to slow down as chestnut eyes flicked to the form of the skeleton that was trailing behind her unassumingly.

Kingsfucking…with a mounting horror she realized that the Chimera wasn’t aiming for her but her familiar.

1 HP.

She knew then with absolute certainty—a feeling deep in her chest that screamed—if Smiley got hit, he would dust there and then.

Frisk threw herself sideways, yanking the monster by his arm into her embrace, instinctively curling around his form, as the two of them went sprawling to the ground, barely missing the swipe of deadly claws. They rolled three times before coming to a stop, Frisk on her back with Smiley pressed to her form above her. She was acutely aware of the throbbing on her cheek and the stinging of the grazes on her elbows, the weight of her Familiar—far heavier than bones should ever be—pushing down uncomfortably, the hard ridges of his ribs pressing through the nightgown against her chest. Due to the position in which they landed their heads were touching, nose to…nasal cavity. Nearly the entirety of her vision was taken up by two pools of inky blackness, orbs of white floating in their depths. White bone was backlit by the halo of the early sun still yet to reach its zenith in the blue sky—clouds coloured and streaked in pale blues and yellows--highlighting nicks and pockmarks on what she had once thought to be completely smooth skull.

It was strange, Frisk mused detachedly, actually how black the pits of his sockets were, the darkness reflecting no light when she knew that she should’ve been able to see the back of his skull. Only the pretty lights in Smiley’s sockets were unaffected by the blackness… they were less like orbs as she has once thought and more comparable to flat disks, bizarrely two-dimensional. They actually glowed, twinkling like the distant stars in the night. Being this close to the Familiar she was acutely aware of a soft wind tickling her cheeks—no, not wind, _breath._ It wasn’t a slightly warm wind she felt coming through Smiley’s nasal cavity but a breath. The swell and dip of a ribcage intermidedly pressing against her was _breathing_. Frisk was suddenly struck with the fact that her Familiar wasn’t just a magically animated skeleton but a living creature, very much alive. Of course Frisk knew that technically monsters were alive—creatures made from magic—with souls—many argued they were a basic imitation—but she had always been distanced from them, learning about them in textbooks, hearing stories of the wild monsters, ferals, unhitched to a mage that routinely came to the surface to kill and slaughter, and seeing the Bonded monsters, civilized and tamed but seemingly subservient and almost not there, distant perhaps—Flowey was a different matter altogether.

The moment shattered when Smiley blinked, seemingly confused, the skeleton pulled himself slowly—as always—upwards to rest his weight on his extended arms, pulling his skull away from her face, the baggy nightgown hanging down by the pull of gravity, the wide collar revealing part of his sternum and clavicles. The fuzzy lethargy of his eyelights had all but abated, becoming sharp defined disks to indicate awareness—as they did in far and few between periods—if she hadn’t been aware of the fact that the Tier One monster’s intelligence rivaled that of a rock, she would have though the skeleton was studying her with puzzlement.

-

 

-

Frisk sat up, pulling herself out from under Smiley she turned to glare at the Hyacinth-Suzerain standing there smugly surveying the results of her Familiar’s ‘pounce’. Her blue eyes surveyed Frisk’s face as if looking for something in particular.

If anger was what she wanted, retaliation, she wouldn’t find it here.

“If you’re so desperate for a Confrontation, I would kindly ask you wait until we are in the presence of a Supervisor and on a safely designated ground, instead of recklessly endangering myself and nearly killing my Familiar.” Frisk said quietly, assertively.

She was a turbulence of boiling emotions inside despite her calm exterior.

Calmly she rose to her feet—tugging Smiley with her—and primly dusted her robes off. Stephira’s pretty face was one of disbelief—annoyance, her Familiar, the Chimera prowled back to her side, the leather of a leash that had once been held in its master’s hand now dragging along the ground from where attached to a collar.

Frisk had to be the bigger person, for the sake of Chara and herself. Attacking a Suzerain—even in defense—was disastrous.

“Let me remind you the consequences of such an action can lead to the suspension of your Probationary License or even its termination.” She continued, turning her back on the girl and walking away.

“Coward.”

The word rang out.

Frisk stopped.

She may have been the bigger person, but Chara and her were more alike than many realized.

Her Mana flared momentarily, chestnut bleeding to a scarlet red as she glared at the Indigo mage, red to blue.

Eyes were the windows to the soul after all.

“Attack my Familiar again and I’ll be happy to remind you why Determination is considered stronger than Integrity.”

—

She ignored any comments the other mage may have made, simply leaving.

She had things to do.

…That and Chara would whine if she turned up late.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me for the last three nights...ahh the wonders of having no free time. -_-  
> 
> 
> This chapter started out one way, then Sans decided he didn't like it that way, so it ended up another~
> 
> And so the world building thickens. In Mage society everyone is considered 'equal' in terms of birth and Family, although this is supposed be be how it is, certain old blood families--in particular the Suzerain's--or descendants of famous mages are treated with a particular kind of caution and prestige.
> 
> Speaking of the Suzerains you may be wondering about the hyphenated surname, while 'Suzerain' is the family as a whole, mages that are born into the family are classed into different branches depending on their magic type or soul colour. Hyacinth is the Indigo branch and Erythros is the Red branch. The word Suzerain means 'a sovereign or state having some control over another state that is internally autonomous.' Historically it referred to a feudal lord. Hyacinth is the latin word for blue as well as the name of a flower. 
> 
> Also for those that are curious the rankings of Soul traits in terms of Power goes like this:
> 
> 1\. Determination (Red)  
> 2\. Integrity (Indigo)  
> 3\. Justice (Yellow)  
> 4\. Bravery (Orange)  
> 5\. Patience (Cyan)  
> 6\. Perseverance (Purple)  
> 7\. Kindness (Green)
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, thank you all so much for the support. 400+ kudos in four chapters, I swear I have to double check just to make sure I'm not imagining things.


	6. A Soul in Array

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are sycophants, clothed skeletons and exasperated Red Mages.

_Sunlight streamed through the canopy of the trees, the chiaroscuro of light contrasting against the wavering shadows cast from the towering eucalypti, sycamore and oaks planted in a mottled assemblage of an ornamental garden. The summer sun sat high overhead, midday heat beating down; it was early enough in the season that the heat wasn’t unbearable, easily staved off under the shade of the great trees. It was under the shadow of a particularly large oak, nestled between the twisting roots of the giant tree that a lone child sat, small hands clutched around the spine of a worn and dog-eared book. With dull brown hair, cut into a short bob and flat formless clothes, she struck a rather unassuming, unremarkable presence._

__

_Chestnut eyes watched as various children flittered under the trees, laughing as they chased one another around and around. She remained mostly inconspicuous under the cover of the roots, unnoticed by the others. The girl hugged the book tighter to her chest, bringing a hand to her mouth she began to chew her fingernails with an absentminded familiarity that spoke of an old habit. She started—nearly biting her tongue—as a familiar head of sandy brown hair sprung out from behind the trunk of the old oak._

_“There you are Frisky. I’ve been looking for you!” Chara exclaimed, grinning wildly as he darted around the trunk to plant himself in front of Frisk._

_“Why?” She asked quietly._

_The boy looked at her funny._

_“Cause we wanna play Kings and Mages with you,_ duh _.” Chara made it sound as if it was the most obvious thing in the entire realm._

_Chestnut eyes flicked past the form of her cousin to survey the other children, who had stopped their frolicking, all gathered around in a little circle—some of which were looking over in Frisk and Chara’s direction._

_“…_ We _. None of them ever ask me to play.” Frisk muttered._

_Chara frowned._

_“That’s cause you’re always reading. Come on Frisk, we need more people anyway. It’ll be fun~” He trilled, pulling the protesting girl away from her secluded nook between the roots. “Below, we can even play as Kings, we’ll show those king-loving asses who’s boss!”_

_“—Chara! Don’t swear. And besides why would you want to play as a King? No-one wants to play as them.” Frisk added. “All the instructors say we’re not supposed to talk about them anyway, all of us might get in trouble if they find out we’re playing a game about them…and aren’t they supposed to eat people and be evil?”_

_“Nah, you worry too much. None of the old farts care, and anyway playing as the evil side is_ way _more fun. We get to play as big scary monsters and tackle the wimpy mages.” Chara suddenly stopped, he struck a pose in front of Frisk, back hunched over, teeth bared in a grin and hands held in front of him, fingers flexed like claws._

_“Grrrrrrrrrr, we’ll eat them alive!” He growled playfully._

_Frisk giggled at her cousin’s antics._

_“But you are a Mage silly, the Monsters and Kings are our enemies.”_

_Those words seemed to strike a sudden change in the boy as he straightened up, face becoming more serious._

_“…you’re right. I am a Mage, and one day I’ll be the strongest mage that ever lived. Stronger than the Magnus. Stronger than the Gods. Strong enough to bring the Kings to their knees,” He looked at Frisk, eyes burning with a vow. “And I_ promise _that one day I’ll be strong enough to be the fist mage to ever dust one… for Mum.” There was a conviction—no,_ determination _to his words._

_The dark look disappeared as quickly as it came, Chara returning to his cheerful attitude._

_“But that doesn’t matter for now, this is all a game after all.” He said airily, once again tugging the girl after him._

Frisk wouldn’t fully understand the full implications of his vow until she was much older.

* * *

. . . . .

 

 

Despite the Order being the centre of all learning for Magi both young and old as well as doubling as the Magisterium’s base of operations, there were scarcely few shops located on its actual premises—the overwhelming majority situated in the town that surrounded the Order itself—The tailors being one of the few exceptions due to the very high demand for specialized clothing attributed to the frankly ridiculous amount of shapes and sizes Summons came in. Despite it being the only tailor within the Order it also happened to be nearly as far from the dorms as one could get. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem…but never let it be said that today was normal.

Frisk’s cheeks were flushed a bright shade of red, her breaths escaping her slightly parted lips in labored pants. It was becoming a struggle to walk, putting one foot in front of another an extremely arduous task, like her limbs were being weighed down with sand bags . . . in fact that was a rather apt comparison, as they may as well have been for how heavy the collection of animated bones being carried on her back was. It was truly an exercise of Frisk’s patience as another strand of her sweaty hair fell in to her eyes—a few already having being caught in her mouth—being unable to brush them away only added to the torture. In front of her—barely even twenty feet away—the shop stood, bold letters on the entrance placard proclaiming it was open, even on a holy day.

Smiley’s skull lay resting in the crook of her neck, his chin propped over the rise of her shoulder, his skeletal arms hung limply over her shoulders, swaying slightly with the momentum of each of her heavy steps. Now that Frisk was aware of it, the swell and dip of the Familiar’s deep breathes were unsettlingly distracting, unnerving and impossible to ignore. Shortly after the…incident with Stephira, Smiley had quickly lapsed back into his drained state, barely making it another two steps before he had promptly slumped against her, dead to the world. With the meeting with her cousin looming ever closer—she likened the upcoming get-together to the feeling one got before an exam—and still needing to register and clothe her Familiar, she had promptly decided that desperate times called for desperate measures…and thus how she had ended up carrying her less than light Familiar across the campus.

Despite knowing that the distance between herself and the shop door was growing shorter, each step seemed to require ten-fold the effort, by the time she was literally a pace or two from the door, her breaths were ragged, there were black spots in her vision and her limbs ached from keeping herself and the skeleton monster aloft. With an effort that was frankly super human, Frisk managed to pry the door open, whilst somehow balancing the limp skeleton on her back and tumbling through the entryway before her legs collapsed from underneath her. Barely two paces into the antechamber of the shop and she promptly dumped the skeleton at her feet soon following in his wake by slumping to the floor.

“By the Kings,” she swore under her breath, glaring at the lump of bones through the clearing spots in her vision “You’d better be worth all the trouble you’ve put me through you laggard.” She muttered.

The said laggard was currently blinking at his new surroundings owlishly, having been startled awake from the abrupt change in position. Looking at him now, it was becoming more and more apparent that his drained appearance was certainly something more than the skeleton’s usual lazy antics…but the matter could wait till later. Her thoughts were cut short when a lanky man, getting on in years—although he desperately tried to hide if the subtle comb over and light powders to conceal wrinkles was indicative of anything—scuttled on from further in the shop.

“May the Gods radiance bless you on this most holy of days,” his little black eyes were instantly drawn to the rich red of her stole, lighting up greedily “esteemed Mage of the Red house Miss…” When his eyes traveled up further to her features the greed in them instantly settled into disappointment. “Miss Faraday.” His sentence finished in a dreary mutter.

Silone McAllen had always reminded Frisk of a rat, with his greedy little fingers and obsequious ways, by the hunch of his back and shoulders, by the way his beady black eyes would dart around this way and that. He had on more than one occasioned given her the creeps as a child, now he was nothing more than a nuisance, seeing Chara and her own positions as a way to saddle his own fame, that particular trait not being isolated to just the two of them, quite the contrary. Being an inert—one unblessed by the Magic of the Gods—it was incredibly difficult to gain access to the inner walls of the Order, which once achieved granted instant fame and reputation amongst the commoners. Silone McAllen had the fact that he was born into a family known to produce mages as a stepping-stone, the rest gained by being a notorious sycophant, which worked well in his favor with the Old Bloods. Within the Order itself his reputation was divided, many hailed him as a welcome change to the ‘incivility’ of the Inerts, someone who recognized the Magi superiority, others…were put off by his ostentatious displays of sycophancy, in other words he was a notorious brown-nosing bootlicker. But despite all of this, his talent was frankly, remarkable. There were none who could match his eye and quality of tailoring, Frisk would give him that much.

And because she was frugal person who never saw the need for fancy tailored apparel—all her clothing was hand-me-downs and second hand wear—she had never sought him out, other than to make use of the convenience of the bargain rack he had…like she was now. Dusting herself off, Frisk turned to acknowledge the man, normally she would bow to an elder but…it had been drilled into her skull since little, _she was never to bow to her lessers_ …particularly an inert.

“I need to clothe him.” She said curtly—but not impolitely—sticking her thumb in the direction of her Familiar still slumped on the floor.

Black eyes trailed over the skeleton, surprise— _anxiety_ flickering in his eyes momentarily before his expression became aghast at what the Familiar was actually wearing.

“No, no, no. The Familiar of an illustrious Red-mage cannot be seen in such a hideous _bag,_ come I’ll prepare something far more suitable—“

“—No.” She interrupted him. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be taking a look through your second hand wear.” She shot down his hopes without mercy.

The man seemed to shrivel at this, muttering under his breath what sounded like ‘what a waste.’ Motioning with his hand to follow, he made his way deeper within the shop. Frisk trailed after him, barely sparing a glace at the displays of richly died fabrics and embroidery, more preoccupied with making sure Smiley was keeping up.

They were lead deep into the bowls of the shop, past the bright expensive fabrics, past the less expensive cottons, past the wooden crates and storage.

Frisk took note of the side-glances Silone kept shooting her Familiar, his brow furrowing seemingly in confusion as if he were trying to puzzle out something rather complex.

She could practically see the questions turning in his head.

‘Is it true? Did a Red mage really summon a Tier One?!’

‘What went wrong?’

“Miss Faraday, if I could be so bold as to ask, what _Class_ is your Familiar?” Even when not actively trying to gain favor he still sounded servile.

Frisk blinked, looking at the man.

That…was not what she expected.

“I—” She trailed off, turning her gaze back to Smiley. In all honesty it hadn’t really occurred to her what Class of monster he belonged to—she really should have considering it was one of the required categories on the official registration documents.

. . . How did one even class a skeleton? He certainly couldn’t be under the _Insectica,_ _Mammalia_ or _Aviaria_ classes—one needed fur or feathers for that—even the _Reptilla_ and _Aquatica_ weren’t looking very good, kings, the entire _Animalia_ Super-class could be ruled out. Smiley wasn’t plant or fungi based so that ruled out _Floram_ and _Fungam._ Perhaps he was under one of the Special Classes? He definitely wasn’t an _Elemental—_ she highly doubted Smiley was something so rare…or powerful—the _Ghast_ class could be viable as one might class a skeleton as ‘otherworldly’ but she doubted it. Perhaps they would simply put him in the _Chimera_ class where they tended to put all those Monsters that were a mix or otherwise unidentifiable.

“I’m not sure.” She said finally.

Whatever Silone’s thoughts on the matter may have been, he didn’t choose to share them, instead turning to gesture with a curl to a little back room full of a mishmash of clothing. All colours of the spectrum, fashions new and old, styles foreign and casual, most incredibly tacky—these were the discount racks after all.

“All the wares in this room are for sale, but,” Silone gestured to himself. “Should you need the services someone of your status _deserves,_ I will readily be waiting in the front.” He gave a flourish and a bow before quickly scuttling off.

Frisk sighed, being glad to be rid of the fanfare…for the moment at least. Pulling the skeleton to the forefront of her attention—both figuratively and literally—she surveyed his form.

What did one dress animated skeletons in? Despite being humanoid, Smiley had no flesh or skin, so what would theoretically fit him in height would be far too big in width. She could probably get away with a long tunic and trousers with a drawstring or belt so the garment wouldn’t slide down his bony hips. Two to three sets of those would do, giving a set to be worn while the other was being washed. She supposed undergarments would be rather… superfluous in the case of a skeleton, so Frisk saw no need to purchase any.

Chestnut eyes flicked down to the Familiar’s feet, noting how—despite her rigorous scrubbing the night before—dirt had begun to build up between the many small bones that made up the soles of Smiley’s feet. She would definitely need footwear as well… and one thing the bargain rack was not known for was its variety of footwear. Shoes as a whole were very expensive, particularly accounting for the heavy leather of the sole; as such they were also a necessity in every day-to-day life, not many shoes were fit to be reutilized.

Another factor Frisk also had to consider, did skeletons feel the cold? Or more specifically, were they affected by it? If so she would also have to purchase an acceptable overcoat for when winter rolled around.

If yesterday’s bath had been a struggle to get Smiley to comply, then today was worse. The Familiar’s non-cooperation had increased by three-fold, instead of analogously attempting to dress a manikin, now it was like trying to wrestle clothes on a corpse—and in some aspects such an analogy was rather apt. Eventually she settled on two plain white tunics and a third black one, and one pair of long trousers and another that cut off just above the knee.

She was running out of options when it came to footwear.

It was either a pair of hideous boots—that was the closest approximation Frisk could make as they were more a mismatch of fabrics assembled in the shape of a boot—or an equally hideous pair of pink house slippers.

While she was loathe to clothe her Familiar in either, she supposed the latter was much more appropriate of the skeleton’s behavior.

Surveying the final product of her troubles, she decided that Smiley’s appearance wasn’t too bad—a thousand times better than trudging around bare-footed and in a nightgown—but certainly not the height of Magi fashion. A plain white tunic, short trousers clinched with a belt and pink house slippers…she could’ve done worse.

There was still something missing though…she left Smiley to his own devices as she began to ruffle through the racks.

With her back turned she didn’t notice.

Didn’t notice as osseous tissue, malleable bone slid open to reveal fuzzy disks.

Didn’t notice as the same disks seemed to lock on something hiding within a pile of scattered fabrics, as feet—now clad in pink slippers—laden with exhaustion, stumbled across the small room.

Didn’t notice as trembling phalanges almost reverently pulled a fraying orange scarf out from the pile, as a skull tilted, brow ridges furrowing and a permanent smile bent downwards in confusion.

Didn’t notice as fuzzy disks dilated and then contracted into sharp pinpricks of light, as the previously numb being lit up with a single spark, a single fleeting flare of life, awareness.

She _did_ notice as a wave of _something_ washed over her, something, no… _horror_. Frisk stumbled, the breath leaving her lungs in a sudden whoosh, her hands and knees trembling, vision fogging over, waves of horror, shock, loss and disgust pulling her down, like one of the King’s themselves danced upon her Soul.

And she did notice a single word, not quite a voice, not quite a thought, that rung through her head, both a whisper and a scream.

_Papyrus._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13 days in a row without a day off is killing me. I think I can feel my brain leaking out my ears.  
> Happy (belated) New Year.  
> One month in and I'm already snowed under with work, preparing to start Uni at the end of the month and getting to head into the big wide world on my own. Sufficed to say this chapter has been sitting on my computer for a while, I literally started and finished the artwork within the day. 
> 
> So, did I mention how much I love you guys? Like really, your support astounds me, I opened up AStoS this morning and had to do a triple take at the kudos.
> 
> And, and, AND, I GOT FANART!!!  
> Fanart.  
> FANART.  
> Fan. Art.  
> My first goddammed fanart.  
> The awesomely, brilliant and wonderfully talented Dijonai left me this beautiful piece.  
> A link to the piece here:  
>  __  
> [Dijonai](http://dijonai.tumblr.com/post/167383328565/fan-art-for-a-frisksans-fanfic-a-soul-to-steal)  
>  The feels were real this chapter, I nearly bawled my eyes out writing/illustrating that last scene. Unfortunately as is the reality of what Familiars are, the angst is only going to get worse from here on out.  
> As I realise the world building is getting more complex, I'm going to add an appendix to the end of each chapter to help with terms and concepts.
> 
> **Appendix:**  
>  Inerts: A generally derogatory term used by Mages, referring to an ordinary human unable to access Mana or utilize magic to any significant extent.
> 
> Mana: The raw unrefined energy of magic and its various forms. While Mages (and magic users in general) have innate stores, it naturally occurs in the surrounding environment, particularly on realm fault lines or ley lines.
> 
> The Kings: . . . I'll let you figure this one out.


	7. A Soul to Evoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chara and his thoughts.  
> And some things are made clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stars above.  
> Uni is killing me. One of the best things I've ever done, but it's still killing me. Being an adult is also killing me.  
> All this angst is killing me.  
> Writing this is killing me.  
> Killing me is killing me.  
> ...so tired.  
> Enjoy.

Chara knew four things in this life to be true, without fail, without reason.

One.

Trust no one, only yourself.

Two.

Everyone wanted something. Whether from you, or you from them, it was simply a matter of figuring out what and what price one was willing to pay.

Three.

Power was the only true measure of authority and worth within this world.

Four.

Hold what was yours close to your chest, or watch it be torn away by the world.

He learned this from an early age.

Learned as he watched his mother burn alive in the unnatural fires of a feral monster’s flames. Learned as he fought tooth and nail to escape a Wild Hunt with his four-year-old cousin barely in tow. Learned as he killed his first monster aged seven, his magic awakening in a blast of red fury and red eyes. Learned as the world hailed him—and soon his little cousin—as much needed miracles in a realm on the verge of war with demons creeping up from the Deep Below. Learned that everyone had a use for them, a need, an expectation. Learned that through fear, through _power_ he could gain anything he desired, including revenge.

.: _I can feel the angsty brooding of your thoughts all the way over here, Master. :._ Flowey’s drawling mindspeak informed him.

Chara winced, apparently he’d been broadcasting again. He wasn’t really in the mood to respond to Flowey’s mockery in kind today…he was too busy ‘brooding.’

The said buttercup was swaying back and forward, seemingly caught in a breeze—a non existent breeze, but a breeze nonetheless—this a particular tell of the Floram’s when he was becoming anxious—not that Chara needed it, he could feel the waves of barely concealed unease rolling off the Familiar.

It was funny almost, to him Familiar’s had always been a tool, a means to an end, a way to further his goals, his power. In the beginning Flowey had been exactly this, a kingsfucking powerful Summon that would do his bidding, without question or exception—or so he thought—without him having to compromise the first rule.

But…things changed.

He soon realized the bond between himself and the talking flower was much different from other Familiars, more…intimate.

When a creature had access to much of your thoughts and feelings—and vice versa—you tended to think of them contrarily.

He trusted no-one in this world other than himself . . . and Flowey—but then he thought of Flowey as an extension of himself.

Flowey wasn’t a monster to Chara, just Flowey.

.: _Oi Stupid I’m—:._ The aforementioned Familiar hissed mentally.

.: _I’m not in the mood Flowey. :._ Chara cut him off sharply.

The Familiar’s entire demeanor shifted, mocking gone.

The feeling of a vine curling under his chin again took Chara from his thoughts as Flowey turned his head towards the potted plant. Flowey’s stalk had extended upwards so he was face to face with Chara, butter-yellow corolla mere breaths from each other, a face downturned with worry, a different face, a face devoid of jeer, soft and kinder looking.

“Master.” Was all the Familiar said, all he had to. Too much could be communicated between them with just a look. _This_ was the Flowey Chara knew—behind the mockery, scorn and the façade he showed all others—the Flowey he trusted more than anything. Sometimes he wondered if they were different beings altogether.

Chestnut eyes flicked momentarily to the ball of orange sitting low on the horizon, and only sinking lower.

“Frisk’s not here yet. Even with that pile of bones, she shouldn’t be taking this long.”

Frisky made a habit of always being punctual—particularly when she knew he was involved, Chara may _slightly_ have taken delight in flustering his baby cousin with complaints—as such when she wasn’t then there was usually something wrong. He could think of a few certain 4th Class mages he might need to have a . . . talking to, in light of some recent comments he’d overheard.

“…I’m not worried about Beanstalk, she can take care of herself, it’s that trash bag skeleton I’m concerned about.” The Flower seemed to shudder as if remembering something rather unpleasant. Chara furrowed his brows in confusion.

“Smiley? That lump? I know it’s kinda creepy being a cadaver and all but its about as harmless as a wet fish, and a Tier 1 to boot.”

Flowey snorted—there was no humor behind the action.

“That’s what you think.”

“You never did tell me why you reacted like that yesterday.” Chara shot back.

Flowey huffed.

“It’s a monster thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

Chara pouted, looking away as if seemingly giving up.

“Okay, I guess I just never thought my Tier _12_ Familiar would be scared of a pile of bon—“

“—I’m not scared of that smiley trashbag! I just—arhhhgg. He’s not what you think he is!” The Flower practically screamed, “There’s something _off_ about him and I—“

The Floram wilted, his face shifting once more to gentle and timid. “I-I’m _afraid_. For Frisk…for you….I can’t, I just—I’m sorry.” He completely clammed up then, wholly unresponsive to Chara’s nudges trough the link, a near brick-wall when he tried to probe anymore information about the subject from the Familiar’s head.

-

 

* * *

. . . . .

 

She walks, bare feet planting in the snow, a slush of brown and black, each step heavy, tired— _so very, very tired, he’s so exhausted—_ and utterly drained. Even though her stomach makes no complaint, she feels as if she hasn’t eaten in days— _a scoff, its been longer than days, much, much longer than days—_ no, she hasn’t eaten in… _weeks_?

She blinks at this, humans can’t go without food for _weeks_ , she’s be dead otherwise. Her thoughts are nudged back to the matter at hand…she decides not to think too hard on it.

She starts when she feels the weight on her back stir, up until that point she’s been somehow unaware of it, something hard and smooth nuzzles into the crook of her neck.

A soft mumble.

“ _░░░_ I’m hungry.” the voice is that of a child’s, weak and soft— _all the joy and enthusiasm he knows to usually be present, whittled down and eroded away. He hates this fucking war so much—_ war? What war?

Her lips move, forming a response.

“i know pap, i know. but we’ve gotta hold out a little longer kay? the next rations’ll be here in three more days.” _What he doesn’t say is that he’s been sacrificing much of his own rations to keep paps going—_ her voice has that weird…accent to it again. She sounds, tired, like she’s trying to imbue her words with as much enthusiasm as physically possible but failing abysmally.

It still seems to work as the child perks up.

“W-wowie! Three days?! That’s not long at all.” He croaks with enthusiasm, and she nearly stumbles as her heart physically _aches_ at how _sad_ that simple statement is. “Wingdings will be home soon too right?”

“. . .yeah.” She says hesitantly, shrugging noncommittally as her arms tighten around the child— _internally he cringes, of course Paps would ask the one question he’s been trying to avoid. Bitterly he thinks, the eldest son of the N.T Roman and Verdana would be—is— expected to fight on the front lines against the fucking mages while the second eldest struggled to provide for the youngest._

_He hates this fucking war._

The child yawns, nuzzling his surprisingly hard cheek against her own. “When he’s home, we’ll all go get nicecreams, and Mama and Papa won’t be busy and we’ll all have dinner together, and Wingdings will read _Fluffy Bunny_ to us before bed.” He mumbles with expectation.

“aww, ya words hit me right in the sternum. you’d rather hear wings read _fluffy bunny_ than _me,_ your best, most awesome other. . .” she trails off, unsure. As if she’s an actor in a theatre performance who has run out of script to read off. Other...other what? What is she to this child? She feels a flash of internalised confusion that’s almost her own but not. Her lips begin to move again without consent.

“— _other…other brother.” He finishes._

 _. . . that wasn’t how its supposed to go—_ how _what_ wasn’t supposed to go?— _the memory. In this memory he never pauses—_ memory? This isn’t a memory, this is clearly a dream. It can’t be a memory if she’s never actually done any of this— _no. That’s wrong. His brother—_ she doesn’t have a brother— _no. No. This is wrong. He wants to scream at his own mind. He would n e v e r forget Papyrus, or Wings._

 _There’s—_ something _—wrong—_ here.

_He knows there is something wrong._

She knows there is something wrong.

 

_…She?_

…He?

 

_He had never referred to himself—out loud or mentally—by the feminine pronoun, never identified with it. Ever since he was old enough to agree or deny with his parents temporarily assigned gender, he had always identified as male. His body—an extension of his soul—once reaching the early stages of maturity, changing to reflect this._

She had never referred to herself—out loud or mentally—as a boy, a he, a him. She had been born sexually as female, thus everyone had called her as such. But, even then, _her_ had always seemed right. Even as puberty came along and she developed only half as well as the other girls—staying somewhat androgynous—it had never really bothered her—much—she had and still identified as female.

 

 _He shifts, searching mentally for the_ otherness _in his head_ , _mental fingers questing out—_ she jolts, feeling something brush against her, something in her head— _there! A presence so closely meshed with his own, like two images superimposed over one another, so tightly pressed he can barely tell where they begin and end—_ she attempts to recoil, confused as to why there’s something _else_ in her mind— _he strikes quickly and efficiently against the foreign entity, digging his fangs in, phalanges attempting to both hold the otherness in place and pry it apart—_ she panics. What _is_ this _—it panics, he holds tighter, gaining some purchase in it…no, he realises, not it, but_ she.

 _She attempts to pull her consciousness away, but her frantic motions only serve to pull the knots tangling their minds together tighter, he cannot understand why she does so—_ she can’t escape as she feels the _else_ start to pull at the individual threads of her mind as if unravelling them— _as he disentangles the very outer layers of the knot he observes, cautiously noting each action the otherness takes to try and gauge her intent. She’s flailing chaotically, struggling this way and that, without much thought or logic to her actions. Her intent is completely innocuous it seems. He’s suddenly reminded of when his little brother was still a baby bones, after he had foolishly touched a flowering glitter-beetle that had latched onto his phalanx, his brother thrashing around wildly as if the beetle would make his phalanges fall off._

_He falters._

_Of course. It makes sense, logically. He withdraws slightly—_ she struggles to even comprehend what’s going on, but finds relief at the sudden— _he pounces, doing no more than the metaphysical and mental equivalent of a prod with a phalanx—_ she starts, violently careening away from the presence, well as far as their tangled minds would allow— _just as he conjectured. This isn’t the reaction of an organised threat but a child. A_ child _. That raises the rather pressing question as to why a child is re-living his memories and currently flittering around in his skull—_ what the below is going on?!— _noisily at that. He can’t think with this kid_ _interrupting his_ —the other presence still won’t let go—. . . _train of thought. A flash or irritation sweeps through him and he feels an echo of fear back._

 _Enough is enough. He needs room to think. He gathers his consciousness and_ pushes _hers, while simultaneously withdrawing as far back within his own mind as possible._

_—_ She’s careening,

                                                                                                                                            tumbling,

                                                                                                                                                     being forcibly pushed

                                                                                                                                                                                             out _—_

—Until the string snaps taut.

_.:who are you?:. He demands, addressing her._

She presses as far back from the else as possible. Flinching sharply at the venom present in the Voice-that-isn’t-a-voice. She can’t help but feel incredulity at the absurdness of the question.

.:Who am I? Who the below are _you?!:._

_.: name’s ‘i’m the one asking the questions here kid’:._

D-did it just make a pun?

_The child’s presence seems to bristle, almost sullenly. His wariness begins to evaporate; it’s nigh impossible to hide one’s intentions when mentally entangled with another sapient being._

.: I’m not a child. :.

_.: your low mana stores and underdeveloped magic networks say otherwise. :. To prove his point he trails metaphysical phalanges through the outer filaments of her networks—fragile things that would dissipate given the slightest ill intent. Normally only children that haven’t even developed a bullet-pattern yet have such flimsy networks, yet her cognitive syntax does seem rather advanced._

She feels the strangest sensation, almost akin to the feeling of static on the hairs of her arms. She bats away the foreign thing instinctively.

.: Stop that. And answer my question. :.

_He decides to humour her for the time being, until he can figure out how to unravel this mess._

_.: heh, name’s_ _░░░_ :.

A mess of garbled pitches and sounds. She feels confusion that isn’t her own.

— _What? He utters his name again._ _░░░._ _That’s not right._

 _░░░_.

No.

 _░░░_ . _He tries again, slowly trying to understand why it sounds wrong._

 _░░░_ _is his name. He knows it is. He knows the sounds and syllables, its characters and meaning. Yet at the same time he doesn’t, like a word that is present on the tip of the tongue, you know yet cannot seem to spit out._

_░░░_

_░░░_

_░░░_

_░░░_

_░░░_

_░░░_

_░░░_!

It’s muttering to itself, nigh incoherently, panic rising in its Voice-that-isn’t-a-Voice. She wants to wake up. This dream is slowly descending into a nightmare.

 

 _. . . What else has gone wrong? He tries to recall other things, his age? Don’t know. What was he doing before this? Nothing. Papyrus and Wings? His brothers, nothing else. Where was he from? Nowhere._ Who is he? _Someone, before, and now no-one._

_The memories slip from his grasp when he attempts to access them, even the one he was experiencing before is starting to slip away._

_He remembers…_

_The cold._

She feels cold.

_Loneliness._

She feels an aching loneliness.

_Burning._

She’s burning.

_Cold._

Too cold.

_Numb._

She can’t feel.

_Numb._

Can’t—

_Numb._

_—numb_

_Nothing._

Nothing.

 

 

 

 

_Nothing._

* * *

_. . . ._

 

He was becoming antsy.

Chara began to pace back and forth, Flowey still nestled in the crook of his neck.

There was only the barest speck of light on the horizon, the last sliver of the dying light, darkness swallowing the sun.

Kingsfucking Below.

Frisk was still not here yet.

Flowey stilled, facing towards the wind and sniffed with his non-existent nose.

“Someone’s coming. Not Frisk.”

A mere two moments later a boy scrambled into the clearing, a Familiar—a Whimsun—flittering hurriedly behind him. He straightened up, trying to make his grey robes trimmed with green presentable. A green mage, a healer by the looks of it. He was desperately trying to avoid looking Chara in the eyes.

“G-g-g-green Mage, Probationary 3rd C-class, Isaac Viridian-Suzerain r-r-reporting to,” He squeaked. “R-r-r-red Mage, Probationary 1st Class, Characin F-faraday.”

Chara perked up. Reporting to? The hospital very rarely sent out personal messengers, particularly a practising healer.

He tilted his head.

“I, ummm, I’ve been t-told to inform y-you that Red Mage, P-probationary 4th Class, Friiska Faraday,”

Chara froze.

“Is c-currently being attended to onsite after she and her Familiar…collapsed due to magical exhaustion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'll be leaving you all there. :p
> 
> Just a few things, my take on monster biology is a bit...different from what I've read in some other stories. I guess that just comes with the territory of an AU though.  
> Chara and Frisk's real names are Characin Faraday (Pronounced Cara-sin) and Friiska Faraday (Pronounced Fr-EE-skah).
> 
> And some new terms for you all. (Remember, some of these are written with the perspective of mages in mind.)
> 
> Appendix:
> 
> Feral Monsters: Feral monsters, or simply Ferals, is a term to classify monsters that are unbound and not in the service of humans. Named so for the seeming lack of intelligence and civility they display, appearance wise they tend to be much larger than summons and far more vicious. They come from the Deep Below. _(See Deep Below)_
> 
> Wild Hunts: Wild Hunts refer to large-scale attacks made by relatively large numbers of Feral monsters that pillage villages and smaller settlements and proceed to chase the survivors in what is what is observed to be ritualistic 'hunts'. Usually led by a single or duo of chiefs who command the senseless masses.
> 
> The Deep Below: The Deep Below, or simply the Below is the dark realm in which Monsters are reported to dwell and hail from. Summons are bound from this realm. Ferals are known to slip through the realm fault lines onto the upper planes where humans dwell. Below also is used as a common vulgar slang or curse (similar in the sense to 'hell'). 
> 
> Monster Genders: Gender for Monsters is a relatively fluid concept, as they have no need for binary sexes due to their method of procreation. Gender is in itself simply a reflection of a Monster's identity and Soul. At birth they have no apparent gender bias in their physical structure, as such a parent or guardian will assign a temporary gender to them until they are mature enough to decide for themselves. When they 'mature' a monster's physical body (an extension of their soul) will change to reflect this. Whether this be more masculine, feminine, neither or a combination of both. (This is how a skeleton can have a male or female pelvis and certain monsters breasts, without the biological need for mammary glands.) Physical appearances have been known to change should their identity shift given enough time.
> 
> Magic Networks: Magic Networks are intangible pathways created by magic that branch outwards from the soul. They can be used to identify a monsters signature, maturity, gender and intent. Humans are not known to have these...

**Author's Note:**

> If you like, leave a comment, or don't. Completely up to you.


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